


Furi Ficlets

by RuddyRougeRogue



Category: Furi (Video Game)
Genre: All of the characters will show up at some point or another, And a smattering of OCs to fill out the world, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 36,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuddyRougeRogue/pseuds/RuddyRougeRogue
Summary: I work better with short bursts of inspiration, so I can't promise any big multi-chapter fanfic. But here's all the bits and bops I have so far. Please leave a comment for the chapters you like. I need to know you want more in order to post more.





	1. Activation

Teal amniotic fluid filled the four-meter tall tank all the way up to the very brim, thick and sluggish with no threat of sloshing over for the moment. A great pressure lock served as the lid to the incubator but it’s been detached to allow the doctors access to the body floating suspended inside. 

The body was cultivated to be 180 cm tall, and weigh about 132 lbs of muscular mass. The legs, shoulders, and spine were the center focus of this model’s physique, prioritizing speed and kinetic strength. The top half was broad and sturdy to ease the strain of wearing the 150-pound allimonite flight suit. Tapering down to a slimmer waist, the legs were long and powerful. Their strength was kept in the thighs, concentrating over 1800 pounds of force within one swift kick.

Wrellal Tiamar, the resident astrophysicist, predicted that the model’s average running speed would be around 73 km/h depending on if the target planet’s gravitational pull was similar to theirs. 

Qaur'chezsh, the physiologist, was fanning himself with the documents he and the cardiologist painstakingly wrote their ideas and formulas for renovated organs on. Sweating from the stress of creating and implementing said experimental organs into the model. All while fervently praying that they will succeed function without the other organic systems most lifeforms would be dead without but would be too burdensome for the project.

Various other professionals and agents grounded their teeth and plucked at their clothes, all eyes fixed on their latest attempt.

An EEG periodically scanned the body for any anomalies as it coursed around the tank, a sharp beep and tiny green light signaling all clear.

Pima chewed her thumbnail as she watched gloved hands carefully drop the rack into the tank, trapping the body and hoisting it out. When the head breached, long, curly white hair wetted down, the doctors methodically started removing the tracheotomy tube and IVs for every inch of the body that made it out.

When everything hooked into the body was snapped out, the rack was slowly lowered to ground level and the stabilizers moved in. 

From there it was a blur of readings, instructions, and procedures to ensure that this time was a success. That they got it all right. A couple of starting shocks and the chest started subtly rising and falling with its first breath. Everything checked out, green across the board, and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

But Pima was jittering in place because the project still hasn’t  _woken up_. 

She glared at the grayish body lying on the examination table. Its hair was starting to dry, letting them all see just how dim the white color really was. 

They didn’t know why the project looked the way it did, but with it being physically and mechanically sound there was no reason for it to still be comatose.

The head doctor of the facility administered a waking serum… Nothing.

She gave the body a few shakes… Nothing.

 Cautiously gave it two shocks… Still nothing.

Fed up, Pima pushed the doctor away and yelled at their one desperate success in a long time to wake up before giving the project a sharp slap across the face.

And it worked; jarred into existence, the project lurched upwards, grasping at Pima’s arms, mouth opened in what she believed was to be a scream, but no sound came out. 

Everyone was startled and yet intrigued as none of their previous projects ever reacted this way when activated before. Granted none of them were ever activated like that. They were always all calm and collected, mature with the programming installed in them.

Pima, while scared, was the most curious out of them all. With the gray undertone to the project’s rapidly darkening skin, and its hair gaining some luster upon waking up, its eyes were also completely dark. No color has set in yet.  

It was odd and utterly fascinating.

“What are you?” The creator asked her creation, noting the irony.

The project opened and closed its mouth repeatedly, distraught that nothing was coming out. 

Its hands tightened their grip on her painfully, but Pima waved off those who stepped forward to assist her.

She watched the project, deadset on seeing what it’ll do next.

With a deep breath and an audible gulp, it tried to speak one more time.

“C… C-c-c…. Co-c-col…. C-cold! Cold.” Dulcet, distinctly male, but weak.  

Pima was dumbfounded before she finally noticed what it was trying to communicate. The project was shivering all throughout its- _his_ -body. 

“Oh.” She said softly. She smiled as reassuring as she could at this intriguing specimen and gently pried his hands off her.

Free, she took off her lab coat, even removing the pens and pins in case they might somehow upset the freezing man, before draping it on him and buttoning it up.

“There, now is that better?” She asked.

The project nodded, clearly grateful by the admiring look in his eyes. She could see a bit of blue start seeping into his irises. 

She rested her hand on top of his forehead and was filled with glee to feel him lean into her touch.

“This is incredible.” She said to her colleagues watching with rapture.  

“You are a Rider; more specifically a Recon Assault Scout. Your job will be to investigate planets and their respective flora and fauna, recording everything you find, executing any who stand in way of your mission and utilizing organic sweeps to determine if the planet is suitable for assimilation. Your line is known as the E-series, for you, and all Riders who will be made like you, are experimental. As far as now, you’re the only one who made it. Do you understand?”

She felt, more than saw, the Rider nod his head before nuzzling more into her palm.

“You’re so cute. I’m Pima. I’m the one in charge of this project, therefore your creator. I hope to see more interesting developments from you,” she lightly scratched his head for emphasis and could swear she felt him purr slightly, “Come to me if there’s an emergency concerning you. And don’t worry...”

She leaned down to press her cheek against his. She could see her reflection in the glass of the incubator. Her blonde hair got messy and tangled at some point and her bright green eyes were shining with excitement.

She smiled at the possibilities from this strange Rider to come. 

“I’ll take care of you.”    


	2. Compassion

She promised him everything she has, but in truth she dreads him acting on it.

When the Stranger crashed into her city he didn’t waste a second to corrupt all the life she took for granted. The trees that conservationists planted in the street breaks, brittled and rotted away from his presence. The flowers that she only ever appreciated in a lover’s bouquet shriveled up and died in their window boxes. The wind that gave everyone a reprieve from the blazing heat of summer turned foul and smothering. The very sky seemed to have darkened with ill intent due to the monster that burned his way through it.

She didn’t expect him to have any reserves at all when it comes to a woman’s body. But now it was night, or so the cell deemed it to be; turning all the lights off and shuttering the eternal sun out of sight, projecting the stars and the moon onto the fake sky. And the Stranger hasn’t touched her once.

She was the one who first initiated physical contact between them, and it seems like she will continue to be. 

She tried asking the man questions;  _Where are you from? What’s your world like? Is it a nice place?_

But all he did was give her a pitiful smile and shake his head. Either he can’t answer or he won’t. It pisses her off either way, but she holds it back. It won’t do to upset the embodiment of armageddon.

The Stranger doesn’t need sleep, so she didn’t request a second sleeping area to be prepared for him. Some small measure of spite against her fate. With her having tossed his weapons over the precipice of the floating island, she has peace of mind to rest in her hammock. 

She never appreciated the greenery and lush life of nature before the Stranger’s arrival burned it all away, but now she can’t get enough of it. She doesn’t like to think about that fact.

The Stranger kept to himself the whole day, only listening, enraptured, as she spoke of her planet. Her dear Earth. Now, not having seen him for nearly ten minutes since ‘’night’’ has fallen, she began to feel anxious. 

She slips out of her hammock and starts to walk to where she last saw him wandering. Across the bridge to one of the smaller floating islands that accessorizes the larger island they will live on. It’s the one that has the lake she uses to bathe. 

During the simulated night time, the water sparkles from the projected moonlight, kept clear and flowing by the waterfall cascading from the hands of the angelic statue towering above it, and the foxfire implanted in the trees gives the whole area a mystical feel. It’s her favorite place.

And it seems like it’s the Stranger’s as well, considering it’s where she found him. He’s standing on top of the water, as though he’s the messiah she would read about from her great grandmother’s book. And it sickens her with disgust.

She wants to call out to the Stranger, call him a monster and a murderer because that’s what he is. Demand that he gets out of her life and drift away, dead in space. But she doesn’t dare.

She stands there, in the dark, watching the man illuminated by silver light reflecting off the water. She doesn’t say or feel anything when she notices the longing on his face. Not even when he pinches the red fabric of the jacket he stole and draws it up to his face, nuzzling into the collar like it could grant him some aspect of humanity. And certainly, not when he lets go of the jacket and extends his hand out towards the stars repeating their cycles on a record, his lips moving in some sort of  _prayer_.

She doesn’t want to have to choke back a sob. But she does and it catches the Stranger’s attention, notifying him of her presence. They stare at each other. It feels like all the death and destruction at the hands of the Stranger never happened, and that  _this_  is his first landing. Something beautiful and serene.

He steps across the water’s surface to her, getting closer and closer. By the time he’s right in front of her, she hasn’t moved a muscle. He looks like he wants to say something but instead, he reaches out towards her, then hesitates then tries again. He ends up cupping her cheek, long fingers rubbing small circles behind her ear. 

She doesn’t give him any reaction to his touch. He’s freezing cold. She can’t help a small yelp though when he scoops her up into his arms.

He carries her like a child all the way across the bridge back to the willow tree that holds up her hammock. He places her gently back into it, mindful of swaying the bed. He caresses a lock of hair out of her face and, so softly she almost doesn’t believe it happens, kisses her on the lips. It’s brief but filled with such a tremendous amount of crushing depth that she reaches out and pushes him away from her.

He doesn’t speak out against it. He takes steps back from her and to the trunk of the tree. He slides down the bark to sit, leans back and closes his eyes.

She has to clench her hands around her mouth to stifle her despair.

He has no right to be so kind.


	3. Honesty

The diorama was the first thing he made to decorate his cell when the government rolled the metaphorical boulder in front of the exit. He lovingly sculpted the buildings, docks, and radio tower all the way down to the most minute detail. If he had some grasp on proper anatomy he would even add some figurines to liven up the plastic hills and pools of water. One of his shortcomings as an architect, ironically. 

Not that he’s ever going to need this illusion of home to keep his final vestiges of sanity anymore. 

 He admits, watching The Song get sliced in half was the most satisfying death he’s been forced to watch. She took everything from him, but at least he’ll get the one up on her by getting out of this hellhole with his life. For however long that will last.  

The Stranger. God, how he wishes he didn’t need to have set the creature free just so he can hold her again. His daughter, a bright hope for humanity’s future after the reckoning. And he willingly doomed it for the chance to hear her call out to him again.

He’s bouncing the hologram of the next cell, or arena as its respective occupant would call it, on his finger like a toy. It’s fair, considering how the next jailer thinks of all this tragedy as nothing more than a game. 

The pedestals lining his cell showcases every part of his magnificent prison. Live video feed of everyone he sacrificed thus far and will continue to. There isn’t one to show his cell, for obvious reasons. But he does have a wristband that lights up and beep whenever someone will come through the teleporter to enter his domain. Just like it does now.

For the Stranger, it’s been a mere few seconds since he exited The Song’s cell, but for him it was minutes. Long enough for the guilt and anger to build up inside him, threatening to tear him apart limb by limb if he doesn’t  _get it out_. 

He flicks the hologram away with a growl and slams the microphone stand to the ground. The burn of releasing the energy he’s been forced to keep inside him is refreshing and somewhat clears his head. But it exhausts him too.

He plays it off to the Stranger as the result of a fight. A half-truth. He doesn’t care whether the thing believes him or not. In fact, he’s so tired from all he must bear that he slips out a few hints to his real person and his actual reasons for setting the Stranger free. 

He wants to cool himself off, so he tells the Stranger to go ahead and that he’ll catch up. But instead of passing through the exit portal he’s been able to hack, the creature turns on its heels and stalks towards him.

Fuck! He screwed up. He knows that there’s a constant risk of not getting out alive, but it’s been going so well thus far that he’d let his guard down. 

His pride doesn’t let him whimper or cower though as the Stranger practically presses itself against him. He leans back far enough to keep their skin from touching but that’s all. 

The Stranger cocks its head to one side, inquisitive, then to another. 

_‘Like an animal,’_  he thinks.

The Stranger reaches out, gently pinching the protruding teeth of his mask. He sucks in a breath as he feels the Stranger slowly lifting it up.

If it looks into his eyes, it’ll know everything. 

He panics and grabs the Stranger’s hand, making it jump in shock, and stopping the mask from being lifted any higher than his nose-bridge. 

Its hand is freezing, yet neither of them lets go of the other. The Stranger is perturbed and clearly frightened. He doesn’t understand why though, the creature’s been grabbed, dragged, and thrown several times during all the fighting. He remains wary. A scared beast is still a dangerous one.

He feels like prey and he wants to laugh; a rabbit caught in the eyes of a wolf. 

The Stranger starts to lean in, pausing now and then to look at him, like it’s asking for permission. He doesn’t give it any sign of yes or no, so it continues its intrusion of his personal space carefully.

It stops when its close enough for him to feel it exhale, irregularly, inhumanly. 

He thinks it’s going to kiss him, maybe to pull a cheap horror movie stunt and suck out his life force. 

It slightly presses the tip of its nose against his. Some soft sound reverberating from its throat, low and hungry. It turns its head to press their cheeks together and he feels the Stranger flutter its eyes, brushing its lashes against his skin.

He’s right and wrong; it was a kiss but not from a monster. 

“Why?” He begs as the Stranger finally backs off, letting his mask slide back into place. He ignores the way he almost chases after the Stranger as it walks back to the exit.

It looks back at him.

“I love you.” The Stranger says.

The man waits for his response. He’s so confused. His last, desperate hope for home is killing him in so many ways. He just nods in acknowledgment.

The Stranger bows his head, hopefully not to hide disappointment, before stepping through the gate.

He doesn’t want to care about him, but he can’t stand lying to himself.


	4. Strength

It was purely by accident that he destroyed the Stranger’s headpiece. They were fighting and the adrenaline of the battle got out of hand, he’s willing to admit. Even though it was a life or death duel.

Well… Death being an operative word. 

He watches the Stranger as the man fluently dances around the dojo, slicing at the air with his paired Katana and Wakizashi. Admiring the flow and grace in the movements, the ripple of sinew under the Stranger’s skin. When the Stranger first woke up in his house, he hissed and winced at every movement his body made, the muscles stiff and sore. The Edge suggested stretching them out with sword practice, and with enough coaxing, the man eventually took him up on the offer.  

There’s no stuttering or fumbling with his blades even though they’re not his favored saber. A true warrior, a master of many weapons. 

The Edge thinks back to what brought this situation about. It was near to what he felt to have been the end of their fight, one of them was going to cut the other down. And he was ready to die with honor. The Stranger is an incredible swordsman, with an elegant precision on the battlefield that he envies since he first saw the man. He was proud to fight him and learn from the warrior whatever he could before the end. 

He was exhausted but they shot off towards each other. The Stranger got a grand strike in, plunging his saber right into The Edge’s gut. He must have aimed to slice straight through The Edge, cutting him in half, but the samurai slammed the broad side of his oar onto the man’s head, stunning him. With barely enough time, The Edge leapt back and brought his oar around, gaining momentum for another heavy attack. It connected but didn’t bring The Stranger down. 

Instead, the black headpiece crushed beneath the assault and splintered the oar. And the Stranger  _screamed_. It made his blood curl up in his veins. He watched in horror as his opponent staggered in place, whipping his head side to side like a blinded man.

The Stranger spoke, panicking but The Edge couldn’t understand him. Most of it was gibberish that he can only now assume was the language of his homeworld. Odd enough the Stranger also said something Earth’s languages; Spanish, Dutch, French, German, Japanese, so on and so forth. Before this horrendous sound of rusted clamps grinding together shrilled out and the Stranger slammed to the ground, unconscious and barely breathing.

He couldn’t leave a worthy adversary suffering in front of him. He had the thought to finish off the Stranger quickly and painlessly, but with what he witnessed he couldn’t bring himself to. So, instead, he patched himself up to nurse the Stranger back to health.

Though the Edge still doesn’t understand why he decided to try everything he can to “fix” the Stranger after seeing him so weak and lost upon waking up. 

“Maybe it was the absolute fear in his eyes,” He says to himself. 

He hears footsteps coming towards him and looks up to see the Stranger sheathing the paired swords before handing them back to him. The Edge graciously accepts them back with a bow of his head.

“Do you feel better now?” He asks, “May I request for you to sit beside me? I will not harm you but I do have questions.”  

The Stranger takes a minute to ponder but eventually goes to sit next to him. 

 Seeing the Stranger’s body quivering from stress in certain spots, he massages his hands into the man’s shoulders and back, noting the power and muscles of a soldier.

The Stranger tenses but relaxes as The Edge soothes his worry.

“Thank you,” The Stranger speaks plainly, “What do you want to ask me?”

The Stranger’s dialect is very strange. The Edge can’t understand how, but the man’s accent will constantly morph into various types, even in the middles of his sentences. Some he recognizes and others he doubts is of Earth origin. He surmises that it must have to do with the fragments of the headpiece, lying on his kotatsu. 

“My first question is rather simple,” he stops his massaging and looks the Stranger in the eyes, “What is your name?”

The Stranger’s surprised and The Edge waits patiently for an answer.

“My name is Rider.” He says softly. 

“A pleasure to meet you Rider,” The Edge holds out his hand to him, “My name is Miura Anjin.” 

Rider looks at his hand, confused and grievous for a brief second. He stands and The Edge can’t tell what his intentions are.

For a moment, he believes that Rider’s going to try to grab his saber lying against the wall. The samurai moves to grab his own weapons but instead, Rider pools himself into his lap, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burrows into his neck.

“You’re warm.” He mutters out, his lips teasing his skin. 

The Edge hopes he is because Rider is  _ice cold_. He even hisses a bit at the skin contact. 

“Glad to be of service.” He pats the head of white hair floating in his face. 

He smiles, thankful there’s no need to defend himself. Rider’s gentleness does not surprise him, for he saw something that day Rider crashed into his world that makes The Edge dream of being like him. 

The Stranger wasn’t the one who fired the first shot. All he did was walk, and the world turned to war against him. But even then, Rider knows when to put his sword away.


	5. Sacrifice

She’s exhausted, her knees are buckling, and she can’t blame the snow for how her vision is periodically turning hazy white, making her feel like she is running through a milky cream.

She used to climb trees, jump across rooftops, and skate as fast as she could around the ice rink, savoring the adrenaline and blur of a too-slow world around her. Now she’s sluggish, unable to spare a moment to catch her breath, as the Stranger chases her. Matching her speed for speed, leap for leap, and shot for shot.

He looks so different from what she expected of a man who kills everything he touches, so different from the stories of the shaken victims of his destruction. He looks like a human being. If the hair didn’t float and was a more natural color, and if his presidential blue eyes didn’t also have neon blue pupils, then she could have mistaken him for being like any other man.

She begs for him to turn back, but he keeps phasing through the turret’s attacks. He keeps getting closer to killing her, to being free to destroy her home. So, she pushes herself the final stretch. A far leap across the final gap and she plunges her hockey stick into the shaft and pulls. 

The ultimate weapon that she’s entrusted ownership of rose above the mountains, so big she can’t see the top through the clouds, whirring to life as loud as a jet engine. When it fires the massive beam, the recoil shook the whole platform as a shockwave. She barely caught herself from falling to the ground from the quake.

From what she could see, the Stranger was caught dead center in the blast.

“It’s over, right?” She has long since developed the habit of talking to herself when she volunteered to be a jailer. She needs to push back all the white noise somehow. 

She clutches at her stomach, her lungs burning, desperately gulping down air. She’s so worn out that she could barely muster out a scream when the Stranger plunges down to her, knocking her and her weapon back a dozen feet with his landing.

As she clambers her way back onto her feet, barely grabbing her hockey stick in time to parry a strike at her throat, she sees that the weapon did manage to scorch the sleeve of his left arm. But that’s all. 

“Stop!” She begs as earnestly as she can, “You can’t go out there, don’t you understand? With you, our world withers and dies. You are the end.” 

She truly wants the Stranger to understand. If he just lays down his weapons, maybe the people who made the prison will see that there’s another way to deal with him. 

But he swipes at her again and the only option she has left is to dodge his attacks as much as she can. There’s no emotion in his eyes, no regret, no hesitation, not even pity for the foolish girl whose sacrificing herself for her people. 

It feels so much worse, so much more insulting than if he did pity her. She hates it and to cope she yells out, “You  _are_  a monster!” 

The Stranger pauses for a second and for a second, she thinks she hit a weak spot. 

He bares his teeth like a rabid animal,  _furious_ , before kicking her legs out from under her. As she fell, one of her loose snow boots came flying off. He kicks her in her side right before she hits the ground, sending her flying up into the air, and slashing her abdomen to set her sprawling as she came back down again. 

The rigid suit stops the cut itself from being fatal, but her blood pools underneath her. 

Bare feet stop in front of her. She can’t get up, but she watches as the Stranger turns his sword in his hands, ready to plunge it into her back, and most likely through her heart.

She whimpers, instinctually fearful of her own death. They aren’t wrong when they say that people’s lives flash before their eyes when they’re about to die. Her life does; all twenty-six years of it. And the highlights are all her regrets.

All the scrapes and bruises that her parents fussed over her about, the times she slacked off on work and failed some of her classes, having developed an addiction to smoking and drinking, arguing with her parents throughout the withdrawal, her father’s death and her inability to give the parting smile he wanted, skipping out on his funeral, and lastly her mother’s sick face, begging her not to become a martyr. 

“Mama.” She sobs, wanting to go back to before all of this. Before she became a jailer, before the Stranger ever came to Earth.

 She curls up and waits for the Stranger to kill. Then waits more than she expected when nothing happens. She lifts her head and sees the Stranger standing above her.

His head is turned towards the gate, his exit to Earth, so she can’t see his face. His sword is hanging limply from his hands. She saw him trudge his way through the snow storm that passes around throughout her cell, so she can’t say that it’s the cold when she notices that the Stanger was shivering.

Hope, however pale an imitation it might be, mingles in her chest. If he’s not going to kill her then…

“Are-” She couldn’t ask her question before the Stranger roars with hatred, smashing his sword into the glass beneath them. Luckily the platforms are made of several layers of thick glass, but she can still see a few of them crack into shards from the stab, some of the fractures even extending out to beneath her.

The Stranger sinks to the ground, gasping heavily, not out of breath but filled with volatile emotions threatening to set off at any moment. 

She’s scared but still manages to reach out a gloved hand to him. Her fingers barely brush against his armor. The Stranger jerks away from her touch and she tries to ignore the disappointment.

His eyes are shimmering with unshed tears and her throat clenches around her own sobs. There’s something, someone, that he’s fighting for just like she is.

“It’s right there.” She states the obvious. He can just take it. She knew what she was risking when she became a guardian, he couldn’t have had any idea that all this would happen. 

He gulps down his visible anguish multiple times before he starts moving again. She watches him rip off a sleeve of his red jacket and reach towards her. She doesn’t fuss but does occasionally wince, as he carefully lifts her up and wraps the sleeve around her wound in a makeshift bandage. He ties it off and rests his hand on it, pressuring the blood flow to a halt. He moves her own hands to take his hand’s place. 

She thinks herself an imbecile as she blushes. He lifts her up into his arms, cradling her. He carries her back across the platforms, he jumps and dashes forward so smoothly that she isn’t jostled at all. As expected of an alien.

Once they’re back at the start, she points out a cave fashioned to be her room in the side of the mountain. He carries her there without a word.

He gently lays her on the bed inside, and ask if she has a medkit. His voice is dulcet and deeply melancholic. She fights down the guilt she shouldn’t be feeling.

She tells him where it is, and he retrieves it. He’s appropriate and professional when he starts to treat the cut. He couldn’t care less that she had to strip off the top of her suit. She covers herself with her arms, and the Stranger just pulls the sheets up to cover her torso, leaving only her bleeding stomach out, instead. 

“Thank you,” She says.

He doesn’t respond. It takes maybe two or three hours for him to finish up, wrapping her stomach with proper bandages and pulling her sheets back down to tuck her in. Staggering to his feet, he moves to the cave entrance and braces himself against the wall.

She knows that he can see the gate from there, and is so sorry for it. 

“Why?” She blurts out.

He doesn’t explode with anger or breaks down in an emotional wreck. He turns to her, defeated and hugging himself.

“My home is dying.” He answers.

She wants to cry and scream out  _for him_ , for them both. To curse the fate they’ve been dealt, but she doubts he would appreciate her solidarity.

She buries her face into her hands, sobbing again. Not wanting to acknowledge how her heart flutters. 


	6. Prosopagnosia

A month in and Rider could familiarize himself with every employee in the facility.

The male with the dark brown, slicked hair, and the red-framed glasses was Audrey. He was the psychologist that came in at 2 pm sharp to ask after his health.

“Would you like to move to a larger room? It would take some time, but it’d be nice to have more space, wouldn’t it?” Audrey asked nearly every day.

He always shook his head; no. He was used to the small room. It had a comfortable bed, a shelf for the books his visitors would bring, and a chest for clothes. It wasn’t originally for him but it suited his needs.

He couldn’t think of anything else he might want. If he had any more space, he wouldn’t know what to do with it.

“Has anyone been giving you trouble?”

Nasty looks, insults, and beatings were expected from the moment he felt the seed of rebellion take root. 

The guard with the sliced ear; Marcus, always threatened to break his neck if he told anyone about the assaults. But who would Rider tell when they all already knew? 

Sometimes one of the other guards, a man with nicotine-stained fingers (Bryce) would take a swipe or two at him as well when he felt brave enough. 

Then there was doctor Min, who would write the names of the people he killed, in Hangul, on the scalpels she would then stab into Rider’s skin. On records, for recording how fast the wound would heal the deeper she cuts. But Rider understands.

 The list went on but oddly the offences lessened in severity. Most of them were the aforementioned nasty looks and insults.  

They weren’t any trouble however, so he shook his head.

Audrey sighed heavily, disappointed. He took off his glasses to clean them, and Rider slightly stiffened in his place on the bed.

If there was going to be days when Audrey would come in without glasses, then he would need something else to know the psychologist by.

He scanned the man for anything notable. Clothes were a no go as all the humans stuck to a strict uniform when working in professional spaces. Audrey didn’t have any noticeable quirk in his speech (a standard “American” accent like over half of the other humans) or walk.

He could compensate with the hair but sometimes it would be ruffled and slightly curly instead of smooth and flat.

Audrey finished with his glasses and put them back on. Rider managed to notice a small scar under the man’s left eye. It wasn’t much, but enough of a tell to keep in mind.

“Rider I…” Audrey huffed and was clearly frustrated. “The higher ups know that some of us are hurting you. Unnecessarily. The tests are one thing. But cornering you, knowing that you can’t-” Audrey looked pained for a moment-” _won’t_  fight back is another. I can’t help you if you don’t say anything against them.”

Rider was grateful for what Audrey was offering, but he didn’t see the need for it.

“It’s not unnecessary.” It’s not like they’ll be able to kill him.

“What?” Audrey asked. 

Rider thought of how to explain his answer but then someone knocked on the door. They didn’t wait for an answer before coming in, and Rider was thrown into a loop at seeing the unfamiliar woman.

“Hello, Rider. Hello, Audrey.” She said.

He didn’t know who this woman was. Did he? He racked his memory for anything he cataloged that would make this woman recognizable.

Hair? Brunette, cut short, like a dozen other women he noticed here.

Clothes? No.

Speech? Same as Audrey’s. No.

Body? Posture? Yes, he felt like there was something but he couldn’t quite pick it out.

“Mrs. Stevens, what are you doing?” Audrey got out of his chair to talk to the woman.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. But Mr. Kahlo arrived.” She was nervous for some reason, gesturing with her words. It made the collar of her coat slip down her shoulder a bit, revealing a butterfly tattoo on her neck.

That was it. She was one of the nurses present whenever he had to get his blood drawn.

“Kitty Stevens.” He hesitantly spoke.

She looked at him, startled, “Yes. Is there something you need?”

He shook his head. He felt… Embarrassed? Slightly. But he needed confirmation.

“I thought that bastard didn’t want anything more to do with us.” Audrey steered the conversation back.

“It was a government order to come. Despite what he did, he’s still too useful to cut off. If anything, what he’s done made him even more valuable.”

“Who’s Mr. Kahlo?” Rider asked.

Audrey snapped his attention to him. He had a strange look in his eyes; disgust but not towards Rider, pity, and some small amount of relief.

“I figured you don’t know his actual name. Mateo Kahlo, one of your previous jailers, codenamed The Voice. He’s the man who freed you.”

Rider didn’t even know the man was called The Voice. But it fitted the human he could remember so vividly. Bordering on theatrical, the architect of his old prison, and not once seen without that odd rabbit (or was it bunny?) head. At least not by him.

The man was so constant, so out with his emotions, thoughts, and hopes. The way he spoke, presented himself, dressed, and so much as the way he stood seared itself into Rider’s mind. Permanently branding a hundred means of recognition.

Rider was terrified. But also, more hopeful than he felt in years.

“Why is he here?” His own voice felt like it was quivering from the pool of emotions warring in him.

“He’s to build a new place for you,” Kitty said after a brief pause. “But not like your previous one. It’ll be more open, and more like an actual house, than a cell.”

“How do you know that?” Audrey asked.

“My half uncle is close with Mr. Moore.” She explained.

Rider definitely didn’t know a Mr. Moore. There were humans he knows that have the same last name, but none of them held the position Kitty implied this specific "Moore” to have.

“The meeting is said to last about three hours. So, you have some time to pick out the books and clothes you would want to bring to your new… Home?” It was clear Kitty was hesitant to call his next prison what it was.

Rider was plunging deep into his thoughts, he didn’t expect a warm reunion. Far from it. But he was eager to see the man who made such an impression on him again. The man whose name he could put a “face” to. The miracle of a human being.

“Rider? Are you okay?” Audrey asked, careful with his tone of voice.

“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.” He didn’t know what he was apologizing for. 

Rider gained an unconscious habit of doing so, however. Too much time around humans maybe.

He got off the bed and started to pick out the books he couldn’t bring himself to part from. History, culture, and, to the surprise of his watchers, fantasy were his most treasured stories. He left the chest be, most of the clothes in it were pale, single colors anyway.  

Kitty quipped a fast goodbye and left the room.

Audrey stayed for another hour, during that time asking Rider about the books he read and how he felt about them. He even suggested a few titles for Rider to read. Eventually, he left the room too.

Rider stayed there, reading and sometimes drawing in an old sketchbook a man with a limp (Justin) gave him. 

Two hours and thirty-nine minutes later, the door to his room opened again.

There were two women; one was Jodie, for she had a coral necklace she never went without. She oversaw his containment in the facility. The other was doctor Min; she always wore her hearing aid the wrong way.

There was also three men. There was the head guard Marcus, making Rider feel sick to his sore stomach for a moment. 

Another was a man he didn’t know. He was dressed in a military uniform, medals decorating his chest in a splendor of colors and meanings. On a small, fake golden bar, Rider could read an engraving: MGen. Frederick Moore.

There wasn’t anything else remarkable about the man at the moment. No scars, no posture, he hasn’t spoken yet, and Rider doubted that the general wore his military uniform every day. If he left to change and then came back, Rider wouldn’t recognize him as the Major General.

The third man was an inch or two taller than the others, but slimmer. He was dressed in a finely tailored suit, the black over shirt open and the top two buttons of the white shirt undone. He stood tall and proud, no emotion played off him. There were scars littered across his face. He was incredibly handsome, Rider had to note. But the most striking thing about the man was his eye color; wine red. 

Was that a color naturally possible to humans? He’s never seen anyone else with such a strong gaze.

He felt that something about the man should be familiar, but he didn’t know what.

The man with the red eyes broke the somber silence, his voice was coarse and deep with contempt, “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Mr. Kahlo.” Jodie scorned the man for his tone.

Kahlo?

Mateo Kahlo? The Voice? 

But he… Rider hadn’t…

“Who are you?”

Rider couldn’t recognize this man at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear it up, the name I'm using for The Voice; Mateo Kahlo was not made by me. Tumblr user Sleepran came up with it and I like it too much to think of anything better. And yes, I do have permission to use it.


	7. Bristle

Rider has a habit of sleeping on top of his chest. Something Rider explained as about him “being warm”. 

And he didn’t mind at all, really. He found it unbearably sweet, and Rider looked beautiful like that anyway. Deep in sleep, not dreaming but certainly, in bliss of the luxury he’s never been afforded. Never even really considered before coming to Earth from what he told him. Rider’s white hair was fanned out, draping down his wide back and some strands floating upwards.

He ran his fingers through his lover’s curls, patting down the wayward locks. Rider’s hair was one of his favorite parts of the man. Soft and felt as much like a cloud as it looked. Whenever Rider stands in sunlight in just the right way, he’ll get this aura of different colors around his head, betraying his hair’s secret iridescence.

Mateo wraps an arm around Rider’s shoulders and presses him tighter against him. Rider hums and rubs his cheek against his shoulder.

“Morning,” He mumbles against his skin.  

He presses a kiss against Rider’s temple, greeting him back.

Rider grabs his other hand and twines their fingers together, kissing his neck and along his collar bone.

The first-time Rider has ever done this, Mateo had woken up an hour before him and laid shock frozen at the sight of Rider lying so comfortably on top of him. And when Rider woke up, mind lethargic from being unaccustomed to sleep, pressing a kiss against Mateo’s chest, it startled him enough to jolt out of the bed.

He didn’t know what to feel at the time. Rider took his reaction as means to deny sleeping together in the same bed for a few nights, not wanting to freak him out like that again.

Mateo acted quickly to resolve that issue.

He basks in the morning afterglow, playing with a lock of Rider’s hair. He locks one of Rider’s legs with his own and nuzzles deep into the nest of white hair.

“You have the worst bedhead.” He teases.

Rider playfully nips at his ear in response.

“You have to go to work soon.” Rider burrows his face into Mateo’s neck.

Mateo would have teased him some more if he hadn’t immediately let out a moan of contentment at the feeling of Rider’s stubble jaw against his skin.

_‘Wait…’_

He bolts upright, incidentally taking Rider up with him. Rider blinks at him a few times, bemused.

Mateo could only stare and slowly bring a hand up to trail his fingers along Rider’s jaw line. The short hair tickling his fingertips.

The five o’ clock shadow was an oddity in and of itself to see on Rider, a man whose body was practically carved out of marble for how smooth it is, but even more so compared to the hair on his head and eyebrows. 

The bristle was more silver in color, lending a robust visage of age to Rider.

“Oh,” Rider caught on, “It’s been a while since it last grown out. I haven’t noticed.”

Rider rubs at his jaw, pawing off Mateo’s fingers.

“It’s alright if I use your razor?” He asks.

Mateo felt his blood run cold. Rider wanted to shave off his morning beard. But he looks so  _good_.  

“What?” Mateo unconsciously encircles him with his arms to keep him from going to shave.

“W-well, I…” Rider slightly blushes at his reaction, “It doesn’t grow out more than this but it could still be an annoyance.”

For who?

“No.” He tersely denied Rider. He kisses along Rider’s jaw line.

“But-” 

“Nope.” Mateo laid back down, dragging Rider with him and gently tickling his sides.

“You’re an ass.” Rider huffs and hugs him back.

“Yup.” He’ll let Rider shave it later.


	8. Setsuna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rarely write any sort of action, but I'm trying to reach out here and there to get better. So apologies for this rough attempt.

They were stationed at a watchpoint built into the cliff face. It was a rickety structure, consisting of an open-air tower and a rope bridge connecting a mud hut that housed communications. One misstep and it was a long way down to the ground.

Rider was resting on his knees, peering through one of the holes drilled into the tower’s metal barricade. They were miles above a rainforest’s canopy. He shivered, recalling how he, and the two other Riders assigned with him, had to trudge through noxious sludge to reach their station. Hacking through and sneaking around packs of rabid carnivores lurking in the shadows, both animal and plant matter.

The whole planet might as well have been nothing but bones and flesh, to at least match the horrors living on it.    

He could say the precarious assignment was worth it however if he could manage to get a decent look at the planet’s horizon. He usually found that even the most unpleasant of missions become bearable once he caught sight of how the sun(s) painted colorful hues into the waking sky. But the putrid, moist miasma produced by the resident flora made even that a chore.

Rider sighed and clipped the cartridge out of his sniper, plucking out the top bullet. He turned it around in his hands, honey light from the hanging lamps glistening off its bronze surface. He mainly lived out in the void of space, so he relied heavily on an automatic laser handgun. Orbs of concentrated plasma tended to be more efficient in Zero-G than metal bullets.

It was rare for him to use ground forces issued guns, few of the planets he’s been sent to had the gravitational pull appropriate for such weapons. It didn’t matter though, he was still trained rigorously in handling his planet’s vast arsenal. Anything that can kill, he’s adept in.  

“Quite a shock in weight, huh?” One of his companions ducked low and crawled to sit beside him. An Attack model, serial number 758-2. One that traveled around the system, judging by the thick accent. “Makes you a lot more aware of what you doin’.”

“That manner of speech is unconventional. Correct your vocal system before I have to report to Med.” And by protocol, he did have to.

Thankfully, 758-2A knew that too and fixed his voice with an overly dramatic cough that made Rider roll his eyes.

“Operator 593 is busy clearing the chatter from the computer, so it’ll be a bit before we can receive any new orders.” 758-2A cocks his head to the side with a thoughtful look, “We also won’t be able to hear any emergency broadcasts that might try to connect in the meantime too.”

Rider could hear the underlying worry in his companion’s words. He slipped the bullet back into the cartridge and reloaded his sniper. He rested a hand on 758-2A’s knee. He couldn’t offer assurance that nothing was going to happen, but he did want the younger Rider to know that he did have his back.

758-2A understood the gesture and smiled at Rider.

“Thanks,” He said.

Rider heard a cuss coming from the hut and the Rider inside scuffling. Concerned, he and 758-2A quickly pushed themselves up to run to comms. Before they could, a disheveled 593-O leaned out the doorway.

“Something just knocked out our feed. Our whole damn network is nothing but white noise!”

Something inside the hut blared and 593-O threw his head back in.

“It’s the radar. Someone tripped a motion sensor, they’re climbing up here!”

“You figure it’s them?” 758-2A cautiously poked his head over the barricade to glance down the cliff face.

Before either Rider or 593-O could respond, a gunshot grazed 758-2A’s brow. Just barely saved from lodging into his head if Rider hadn’t pulled him back down in time.

The bullet nicked one of the lamps before getting stuck in the roof. Rider acted quickly to reach up and take them down, throwing them over his shoulder to drop to the forest floor before a lucky shot could make the whole tower blow up.

“Darva, you okay?” 593-O was squatted down, using the door frame as cover.

“I’m fine,” 758-2A responded, casting Rider a look of gratitude.

“Names are prohibited.” Was all Rider had to say.

“I’m going to route the short-wave radio to ground command. We need clearance to engage.” 593-O turned back into the hut.

“So, we’re supposed to sit here with our thumbs up our ass?” Darva flattened himself against the metal barricade.

Another shot splintered the tower’s wooden floor and again got stuck in the roof.

“Whoever’s attacking is getting close fast.” Rider reached up to his headpiece, toggling a switch.

His vision was briefly obstructed by sharp lines forming interlocking conclaves. The shapes solidified into a hardlight helmet projected around Rider’s head. It tinted the sickly yellow world into a more tolerable hazy blue. It was still an annoying affect but Rider learned to deal with it.

A Rider could take a multitude of injuries, most that can destroy a living thing, so long as they weren’t to the head. If a Rider lost an arm or leg, or even their eyes, it wasn’t a hindrance. They could simply cannibalize the necessary parts from downed Riders. Or even from similar life forms. But they couldn’t do anything about a busted head.

Rider stood up and set the barrel to aim down the curve of the mountain right below them.

He could see a shadowy mass inching its way up to them. He peered through the scope and scoffed at finding it only made the shape more difficult to discern.

“This is useless.” He clipped the scope off, and instead relied on his superior vision as a scout based model.

“Easy 1-E,” Darva fiddled with his wristband. Rider knew that it was a standard Attack model’s shield projector and was glad to know that Darva was ready to protect him with it. “You’re too valuable to die from getting cocky.”

He couldn’t afford to give a proper response, too focused on picking out the finer details of their assailant.

The attacker was eighty kilometers below them, having just crossed the lip of the curve. If Rider was to take a shot he better had to do it soon before it got too close to aim from the tower.

“Op! Do we have anything?” Darva shouted to 593-O in the hut.

The Operator shouted back, “Command is getting authority transferred over to them from Mothership. Give me literally just a minute!”

“One… Two…” Darva grumbled sarcastically under his breath.

The sun was peeking over the horizon, casting an obnoxious glare but Rider was grateful to be able to finally make out what it was that was climbing its way up towards them.

Rider’s chest clenched at what he saw.

“It’s one of them. Pesvion.”

“Shit.” Darva hissed before shouting the new information to 593-O.

Pesvion; one of the planet’s native species that lived deep in the rainforest below. Intelligent enough to qualify for a civilization, but still dumb enough to have rejected a partnership with his homeworld.

The Riders were originally sent to the planet to negotiate with the Anthropod species, but upon arriving to find the species hiding away somewhere, they were ordered to spread out to different stations and scout for them.

Rider could see the Pesvion’s mandibles clunking together, it’s hairy body matted with dirt and sludge. All six of its legs skittered against the stone, only able to hold on by stabbing its claws into the mountain.

The Pesvion lifted its head up and saw that Rider was aiming down at it. He could faintly hear it screech, but it was mostly numbed down by the wind.

Rider felt pity as the Pesvion tried desperately to hurry its ascent. It took a chance and leaped upwards to skip a good chunk of distance before slamming back into the rock and repeating. It had no other choice, as Rider could see the bomb strapped on its back. Every other jump, it would reach a leg back to draw out a pistol and frantically shoot at Rider.

“It’s a suicide bomber.” He told Darva.

“Thirty-ni-Oh for fuck sake, really?” Darva threw his hands up, snapping them back down with a hiss as his right hand got shot.

Rider didn’t move, letting the bullets either pierce into him or glance off the helmet.

“This is getting tiresome.” He commented.

“Op! It’s been a minute!” Darva shouted out just as 593-O leaned out the doorway.

“Orders are shoot to kill.”

Rider brought the socket into his shoulder, and concentrated on the periodical swell of his trigger finger. The Pesvion managed to get within 120 yards below them.

An easy and relatively short shot.

Rider could see just how the bomb was implanted into the Pesvion’s back. Spots of the protective layer of hair were shaved off, exposing a ring of green skin, puckered and infected around the wires jabbed deep into its back.

Poor thing had no choice but to try to kill them.

Rider timed the shot in-between his heartbeats, relishing in the recoil that left his usual handgun wanting.

The Pesvion apparently anticipated it as it leaped up from its spot. The bullet ricocheted off the stone into oblivion, sending up a shower of flint.

The Pesvion landed back down with another horrid screech. One that sliced through the air and made Rider’s ears ring. He flinched and instinctively cupped his left ear with a hand.

He was quick to realize what a mistake that was, snapping his attention back to his target only to find that the Pesvion wasn’t climbing up to them anymore.

“Look out!” Darva warned Rider, bringing up a shield to guard him.

The Pesvion had mustered up all its strength to make a tremendous push upwards to clear the gap between them. Rider could see that the sheer force of the jump wretched its back legs out of socket. It shot up past the Riders and a dozen feet into the air above them. It most likely aimed to land on the watch tower’s roof.

Rider heard the tell-tale beeping of the bomb and dashed back onto the rope bridge to get a clear shot at the Pesvion falling belly first to the roof.

He kneeled, lined up the shot, and didn’t even wait for his heart to finish a beat before firing. It made the recoil feel like someone took a hammer to his chest but he ignored it.

The shot sailed true and imbedded itself into the bomb.

The explosion rocked the station, and Rider and Darva sprinted across the bridge to comms as it took out a chunk of the tower. They slid inside just as the bridge burned away behind them.

Darva muttered a prayer of gratitude that the hut had a separate foundation. Rider propped his head against the wall and sighed out relieved.

593-O whistled at the spectacle, “That was pretty cool. Nice job, Setsuna.” The Operator gave Rider a pat on the shoulder which he did not appreciate.

Rider and Darva glared at 593-O, sharing a thought.

_‘Operator models are useless.’_


	9. Devotion

The child skipped alongside him as he patrolled the length of the château.

“The Ministers proclaim that Salvation presents itself in the form of iridescence. Armed with the strength of a hundred men and seducing with the beauty of a goddess. Their steps carpeted with rot and hell-flame.” The girl recited.

He rolled his eyes at the girl’s words.

Institutionalized religion was always a scum bucket, cultivating the worst aspects of civilization.

She bounced to stand in front of his path, tiny hands set on her hips.

“But mama only scoffs and calls you a nuisance.”

He’s tempted to joke with her but was weary of said mother lurking by them, intent on making sure the Rider wouldn’t harm her daughter. 

“As disappointing as it might be, I have to affirm. There are millions of other Riders who look like me.” He stepped forward to continue his walk but the girl didn’t budge. 

She reached up to him, baby blue monochromatic eyes hopeful as she stretched out her fingers. He sighed but lifted her up anyways, and carried her on his arm. 

“You’re still pretty, though.” The girl wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. He flicked her ear as a sign of affection, thanking her for the compliment.

He continued walking until he reached a red gazebo, surrounded by complementary red flowers.

“Tell me more about your world.” The girl demanded as he set her down to sit on the benches. “Tell me about your military.” 

He crossed his arms and gave her an amused smirk.

“Do your generals believe they’ll be able to match up against us with such information?”

His companion sighed and shook her head, “Those old fools aren’t mine, thankfully. But father ordered me to do this as well.”

She bit her lip and turned her earnest eyes up to him, “Please, messere Rider. This could be the only chance I’ll get.”

Telling her what she wanted wouldn’t yield any results for the King’s militia. And he knew how desperate the child was to be useful to her father.

“Tell them, that such information will become commonplace once this planet’s assimilated. And tell your king, to keep his child out of political affairs.”

She huffed, faking indignation but he could see the tears build up in her eyes at losing her shot.

“I stood up for you, trusted you, and befriended you and you won’t even give me a snippet of trivial information. I could lose my right to the throne because of you.”

“I’m property to my government. I’m not capable of disclosing certain information.” He shook his head at her snobbish behavior, “No matter how much you try, guilt-tripping me won’t work, Nali.”

“I can’t fail again Rider!” She pleaded, grasping at his hand.

Rider wished his parameters were lenient enough to give her what she wanted. But his coding forced him to remain adamant.

“I’m sorry.” It was weak but it was all he could offer.

The girl stayed silent, her head bowed down making her hair cover her face. 

He could tell that she was angry by the way her little hands clenched into fists and her shoulders shook.  

“Nali.” A sharp voice called out, “It’s time for your evening classes, dear.”

Rider turned around to see the princess’s mother standing at the bottom of the gazebo steps.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed to the queen.

The Queen sniffed and turned her nose up at him. Ever since he arrived at the palace, the Queen had treated him with disdain and kept their interactions brief.

He didn’t take any offense to it. He was used to being treated both like a plague and like a god on the planets he’s assigned to. It was dependent on the native species.

As cruel as the Queen has been in her mocking, her reaction was also the most appropriate.

The Church has been singing praises about him. All about being their salvation, puppeteering the common folk of the kingdom to adore him. The King had been trying to play him as a fool, hoping to use him to topple his planet’s “empire” for conquest.

Only the Queen and her daughter realize that they would lose everything when their planet’s assimilated. Their titles, riches, privileges, livelihoods, everything.

He knew that the Queen was prepared to smoothly integrate into his planet’s system, and rise to a position worthy of her there. That commanded great respect from him. People like her were rare.

But her daughter, the princess who he shamed, was drawn into her father’s schemes for power.

Nali hopped off the bench, not even sparing him a glance as she ran off, past her mother and back to the castle.

“You need to talk to her.” He said to the Queen, “You have to convince her to your way of thinking. Or she won’t last through the processing.”

His planet had no room for potential trouble-makers.

The Queen glared at him but didn’t shout or insult him for demanding something from her. She was always softer when her daughter was the topic of discussion.

“I’m aware.” She retorted, “You don’t need to worry about her.”

She gave him a curt nod of farewell before gracefully walking back to the castle.

Rider waited until the Queen was out of sight before following the trail back as well.

* * *

 When he passed through the doors to the main hall, he groaned at seeing the Church deacons.

The religious men were standing in a line, each holding a golden orb. The orbs engraved with pictures of birds and eyes, symbolizing their rank in the Church.

He had the thought of cutting through the servants’ passages to avoid the deacons, but he got noticed by one of them.

He glared at the deacon who dropped to his knees in prayer, speaking in his “Holy” language. His fellowmen copying him as soon as they saw the Rider.

The language wasn’t ancient, only a couple hundred years old. Sacred only because it was created to give the Church an air of mystical enlightenment. And barred from the rest of the populace and even the Royal family to keep face.

One of the several things about this world that he couldn’t wait to see vanish during assimilation.

He’d first heard the “Holy” language as the priests babbled out assumptions about his person, purpose, and origin. Back when he first introduced himself to the royal family.

They’ve proceeded to pester and accost him ever since, wasting his time and patience, whenever they caught sight of him. But it did allow him some insight to the language’s structure. He could pick out certain words and meanings from the deacon’s nonsense.

They begged him for blessings, answers to the infinite, and when he was to bring about the “Dark-light of Repentance”. They were the easiest to decipher as they were the most repeated.

“Stand up. Save yourself some dignity.” He said, desperate for some respite from their madness.

The deacons didn’t stop in their worshipping. A few even crawled forward in an attempt to kiss his feet.

Rider stepped back in disgust and walked around them to the throne room.

The guards let him through without hesitation. Inside, the King was in a deep lecture with one of the Church’s bishops. Rider stood silently, minimalizing his presence to listen in on the two.

The King argued for the option to respond to the offer of an alliance with his planet with force, while the bishop kept trying to advise the fool against it. Citing the differences in their amount of resources, men, and technological advancement.

Surprisingly throughout the argument, the bishop did not once refer to Rider as the embodiment of salvation. But as a menacing man that he felt could easily wipe them out if they provoked him. That garnered the bishop a modicum of respect from Rider.

“Do you always discuss your plans for war with your target in the same room?” He made his entrance known.

They jumped in shock, the King reaching for a ceremonial sword on his hip as the bishop dropped to his knees.

“Only when the threat is a phantom.” The King released his grip on the sword hilt and sagged in his throne at seeing it was Rider.

“Bishop Amson, leave.” The King waved off the only sensible person in his entourage.

Rider saw the bishop clench his teeth, offended at being treated so off-offhandedly. As the bishop passed him on the way out, Rider attempted amends with a slight bow. The bishop was startled at his humble gesture but left in a noticeably softer mood.

“As much distaste as I hold for organized religion, I still recommend being kinder to your superiors. They’ll be one of the first groups my Senate will ask about you and your family.” Rider offered the customary advice suited for the monarchical type of society.

“My superiors?” The King guffawed. “You might want to dunk your head in the river to wash out the mud.”

Rider stayed the insults he wanted to say. He had to deal with the fool for a few more hours.

“An emissary ship from my planet is coming to sign the treaty with some of this world’s leaders. Make the right choice and take our offer.” He would be somewhat disappointed to lose the potential of the few impressive individuals he found in the kingdom.

The King sneered at him. He launched himself from his throne, marching right up to Rider and screaming in his face.

“What right does some barbarian have to command me? Ever since you’ve arrived you looked down upon us with disgust and pity. You ordered me on how to do my job and turned my people and allies against me. You’ve brought nothing but ruin and dissent! Bring your politicians here to their deaths if you wish, but I will no longer be spoken to like the common rabble.”

“The fact  _that_ is how your common people are treated is one of the reasons why this kingdom needs to be conformed to my planet’s culture.” Rider aimed for the fool’s pride as a ruler and hit true.

The King staggered back, insulted.

“Many of the other leaders are wise enough to have accepted the offer immediately. The chance of their empires, kingdoms, and communities’ survival are now significantly better.” He goaded on.

“They’re fools! You heathens will take everything away from us!” The King seethed.

“So you do listen to your wife,” Rider wondered what it took for that to happen, “only half-way, apparently.”

The King growled, furious, and drew out the sword at his hip, aiming the point at Rider’s throat. He jabbed his sword forward, intent on slicing open Rider’s neck.

Rider sighed and pressed a finger against the blade’s tip, pushing it away with ease. He sniffed at the man’s theatrics, “That little toy can’t give me a scratch.”

He could tell that if he stayed in the throne room, he would be stuck in a long-winded dispute. So he turned his back to the King.

“So we’re clear, I would not have offered your kingdom an alliance if other rulers didn’t recommend you as a wise and worthy ally. I do not want to believe those great men and women lied to me. Or that they were deceived.” He told the King over his shoulder and walked out.

* * *

He sat in his lavish room, watching the hands of a grandfather clock tick away the hours until the emissary ship arrived.

The time of arrival was set a bit into the night, but the chosen rulers were agreeable. He busied himself with reading the history books he collected during his exploring.

The planet’s history wasn’t anything impressive. There were wars, diseases, segregation of species and races, and then wars and revolutions that resulted from that. It was tragic, yes, but it would all be fixed under his planet’s government. 

A knock at his door drew him out of his studying. He left the reading desk and opened the door for his visitor.

The Arch-Bishop of the kingdom’s church bowed and stepped into his room, closing the door behind him.

Rider went on guard, “What are you doing here, Arch-Bishop Melchior?”

“Please forgive the intrusion, Sheral.” Melchior bowed his head to his chest. “Bishop Amson told me about the trouble His Majesty is causing thee, and so I felt the need to come to thee personally to ask for thy forgiveness. The King is a stubborn fool, but I beg thee; do not let his actions taint thy view of us penitent folk.”

“It’s won’t.” Rider reassured him. “You don’t need to worry about losing my respect for you as a whole due to the actions of an individual.”

It was more complicated than that but if he wanted to use the clergy to his favor then he needed to stay on their good side.

“But I would appreciate it if you and your brothers could talk to him. I don’t want to loose the few prospects I found in this kingdom because of his foolishness.”

The Arch-Bishop lifted his head, eyes shining with reverence, and repeatedly nodded his head. 

“Yes Sheral! I’m honored to be of use to thee, please think of our services fondly when thee blesses us.”

Rider saw the Arch-Bishop off as the man swore to turn the King to his favor.

If the King wouldn’t listen to the clergy after his people, family, and even Rider told him to take his offer, then the man will be left behind. It was his last chance.

He was returning to his room when a little bundle of sheets rammed into him on the way. He managed to snatch the offender before it could sprint off.

“What’s wrong, Nali?” He peeled the sheets back to reveal a little girl in a pink pajama gown. The princess’s eyes were puffy and a little pale underneath showing that she’s been crying.

Rider felt a bit guilty, and took a stab at the dark for why she was so upset, “Your father?” 

The princess sniffled and tried to bury her face back in her blanket, but Rider untangled it from her. 

“He’s upset I wasn’t able to get what he wanted from you.” She explained in a small voice.

“Considering the time, he was already upset since he already talked with me.” 

The princess nodded.

“Come on,” he reached a hand out to his companion, “you can calm down in my room.”

Nali held onto his hand and followed him back into his room. She jumped onto his bed, burrowing under his covers and covering her head with a pillow.

“Do you want to talk about it, or sleep it off?” He asked.

Nali poked a hand out and signed a simple “No” and turned over, showing that she wanted to sleep. So Rider let her be, resuming his reading on the window still.

He spared a glance at the entrance courtyard and saw a procession of amber lamps, illuminating white and gold cloaks. The cloaked figures carried something golden in their hands, judging by the reflections. 

The Arch-Bishop acted fast, already bringing the clergy to the castle. He made a passing comment about the visitors to Nali, but she just grunted and went back to sleep. 

Rider stayed where he was. The matter of convincing the King long out of his hands, and lost himself in his studying. 

* * *

 A Rider didn’t need sleep. But it was possible for them to get so lost in their thoughts that they enter a sort of meditative stasis. It could go on for days. One of the quirks in the Rider models’ coding that his home planet’s scientists worked towards fixing. But luckily for Rider, he had someone to snap him out of his stasis after a few hours. 

“Rider, Rider, Rider, Rider!” Nali whispered frantically in his ear, startling him awake. 

“What wrong?” Rider was instantly on guard at hearing her panicked voice. 

“I woke up a little while ago and left to sleep back in my room. Since it’s next to my parents, I passed by theirs. Their door was open but they weren’t in there. Not mama, and not papa.” She twisted her hands onto his arm. 

Rider would have suggested that they were maybe up working or spending some late night time together. But considering how important the day was, and the sourness building up in his stomach, he worried. 

Rider lifted her up onto his side, and smoothed out her hair, “It’s going to be alright. I’ll go look for them.” 

He set Nali down on the bed and reached into his boots, pulling out one of his army knives and shoving it into her hands. 

“I’m going to lock the door and windows. Don’t let anyone in but me. If you need to run, there’s a secret passage in the closet. Pull the third silver hangar on the right three times. Do not be afraid to use this knife. Even if it’s against someone familiar. Do you understand?” Rider spoke hastily. 

Nali nodded, clutching the knife in her hands, shaking but keeping a brave face on. 

Rider did as he promised, drawing the curtains and locking the windows before drawing his pistol from its holster and the other knife in his boots. He locked the door and threw the key to Nali. She caught it and gave Rider a quick, “Be careful.” 

He nodded and closed the door behind him. 

He snuck towards the King’s and Queen’s room, preferring to alert the guards after he was able to figure out what’s wrong. 

Like Nali said, the door was open and neither parent was inside. Rider did a once over and cursed at seeing scuff marks leading out the door. He bent down to pick up a discarded handkerchief by the bed and sniffed it. 

The rag was reeking of chemicals. But what made Rider’s gut clench was the design of the handkerchief. White with gold embroidering of birds and eyes.

Rider shot off, out of the room and smacking into the pair of knights stationed at the closest end of the hall. 

“Messere Rider, do you need something, Sir?!” The guards straightened themselves in his presence. 

“One of you come with me! The other, alert the castle and guard the princess! She’s in my room.” He slammed the handkerchief into one of the guards hands. “The King and Queen have been kidnapped, send your men to the Church.” 

He didn’t dare waste another second. He ran out of the castle and hoped that the guards were competent enough to follow his orders. 

He left the palace grounds and dashed through the streets, keeping his sight set on the church spire piercing the night sky. 

He heard the sound of several horse hooves galloping behind him and a desperate shout of his name. He ignored it and ran ahead. 

A couple of priests stood in front of the doors, swaying incense burners on the steps. Rider barrelled through them, sending them flying down the stairs. 

He kicked open the doors, the heavy wood slamming into the marble walls inside, echoing like he threw in a bomb.

Inside, he found the King and Queen propped up against an altar, and he knew it was all his fault. 

The corpses of the King and Queen were nothing less than abhorrent. 

The King’s face was mangled. His eyes were wide open, the eyelids cut away to leave bulging blue orbs to stare coldly at intruders. His hair was sheared off, and the top of his skull caved in like a bowl. The skin of his forehead has been meticulously cut and peeled down to fold in front of the mouth. Drool and blood seeped out beneath the sagging gag. And a hole was carved out of his throat and his tongue was stringed out. 

A statue of a malformed eye with six pupils was above the King’s corpse. 

The Queen’s corpse made Rider feel sick. 

Her body was flayed. Her eyes were gone, leaving bleeding and swollen sockets. The arms were broken to turn the other way and bent over her head to clasp against her back. Feathers were jabbed into her mangled limbs to mimic sickly bird wings. Her nightgown was cut open down to her midsection and her murderers had ripped the muscle out of her chest. Her legs were wrenched to be longer than they were meant to be. Her knees inflamed, bleeding and purple. Some of her toes were missing and the few that remained were carved to a point like talons. 

A statue of a bird, wings of fingers outstretched like it was going to take flight, was above her. 

Rider fell to his knees. He wasn’t nauseous, or crying and screaming in despair. He wasn’t even in shock. He wasn’t capable of feeling or doing any of those things. It wasn’t in his coding. 

But he did know guilt. Guilt’s used to pressure Riders into submission. Guilt is for control groups. 

Guilt bore down on him, made his head sink onto the floor, and stole the air out of his lungs. Guilt made the whole world feel like a hallucination and stole all his senses. 

Heavy, metallic stomping reverberated throughout the cathedral as the Knights finally caught up. 

They stopped right behind him, replaced by sounds of retching, screams, and confusion. 

“What is this?” A deep voice pleaded. 

Rider was so far gone in his head that he couldn’t construct a response. 

A large hand grabbed him by his hair and whipped him up onto his feet. His neck was twisted to make him look at whoever was grabbing him. 

“What is this?!” The captain of the guard screamed into his ears. 

Rider licked his lips and willed his voice into existence. 

“The clergy. Kill the clergy.” 

The captain threw him back to the ground, calling him ludicrous and demanding to know what happened. 

Rider picked up his pistol from where it fell out of his fingers and switched off the safety. The knife was a bit farther than he was willing to reach. 

The panic cut short as the men of the Church filed into the room one by one from a side hall. They froze when they saw the castle guards. They looked as though they were going to disavow the corpses of their King and Queen pinned to the altar. 

But once the saw Rider, bent down on his knees, their whole image changed. 

They became jovial, asked him if he was hungry or thirsty. They explained how they acted in salvation’s name to convince the King to join his cause. But they were forced to persecute him when he refused and horrendously insulted Rider. They said they regretted killing the Queen, but she went mad when they grabbed her husband. Cursed them and him, and so they had to act without his judgment.

And they even dared to ask him for forgiveness. 

He thinks it was Arch-Bishop Melchior he killed first. He didn’t have the time to check before he slaughtered the rest of the churchmen. Even a few of the guards and the captain as they got in his way. The rest must have ran away at the first shot. 

Once he was done, his mind cleared and he was able to take in the fresh carnage. He turned to leave the chapel, satisfied.

Back out on the streets, Princess Nali ran up to Rider, scared and asking him if he and her parents were alright. 

He wordlessly picked her up into his arms and carried her, kicking and worried, all the way back to the castle. 

Along the way, the night became even darker, almost pitch black but faintly lightened by the stars. Peasants, that were drawn out of their homes by the commotion earlier, pointed up at the sky and questioned where the moon had gone. 

Rider glanced up and flinched at the thought of having to explain all that happened to his superiors as the emissary ship blocked out the moon. 


	10. Sweet Tooth

Mateo watched, with his chin resting on his clasped hands, as Rider and Essie shared candy between them. 

His daughter favored the milder flavors, while Rider had an affinity for the unbearably sweet. To the point that Mateo had to coerce him to see an assigned dentist. 

He chuckled to himself as Rider gave Esperanza a bright smile of pearly white teeth. Not for any discernable reason. Mateo knew that his daughter’s mere presence could make anyone happier. 

“Why don’t you smile like that when I exist?” He teased. 

“Because you aren’t preordained with sweets.” Rider retorted, smirking. 

Mateo snatched a green lollipop from Rider’s fingers with a snort. 

“Smartass.” He grumbled fondly. 

Rider bent over the island to try to grab back his candy. Mateo took the chance to lean forward a bit to meet him half-way for a kiss. 

Essie grunted through her mouthful of chocolate dips and covered her ears. He leaned over and kissed her forehead as an apology. 

“Make sure to brush your teeth.” He said, keeping the candy out of Rider’s reach. 

Essie swallowed her candy down and chirped out, “I will.” 

Mateo dropped the lollipop into the candy dish much to Rider’s annoyance. 

“You’ll get sick again if you eat anymore.” He told him, turning his attention back to his tablet with his latest project. 

He was to head a revitalization plan. In charge of designing and overseeing properties and buildings to rebuild. 

Rider’s first arrival corrupted and destroyed so much. It was like Hell upturned onto Earth. 

* * *

 

A dot on the sun that made scientists frantic, turned out to be a cloaked alien ship. 

What was thought to be a comet passing through the morning sky, turned out to be an invader. 

A war broke out against a single, unstoppable foe. It toppled entire cities and parliaments. Only halted by a massive, overwhelming onslaught against Rider. 

No one was spared from the fighting. Hundreds, consisting mostly of the armed forces, were killed outright. Hundreds more were killed indirectly. 

Those that did manage to live through the nightmare lost limbs, homes, friends, and/or family. 

Mateo has nightmares about evacuating the city with his daughter. They had the unfortunate luck of living in the one that Rider had landed in. 

The panic and screaming were awful for sure. But the pitches of jet engines as the pilots steered between skyscrapers and dipped down low to dogfight were far more painful. 

That one day cost him his sister and home. It took his hearing for over two years. And left him scarred from shielding Esperanza from the ricochets of bullets and buildings as they crumbled beneath Rider’s wake. It left him twisted with hatred and depression. 

When he had set Rider free, he did it with spite. 

He manipulated the stranger to empathize with him, not with humanity, but  _him_. 

He baited Rider to his side with the temptation of freedom, and Rider fell for it hook, line, and sinker. 

The Stranger killed everyone that stood in his way to Earth. 

He destroyed the Mothership. His closest thing to a home. 

He betrayed the Star and killed hundreds of other Riders that slept in cryonic capsules. The closest that he ever had to a family. 

Mateo had lavished in the sight of the stark white explosion from Earth, his daughter’s hand in his. Satisfied, he watched a streak of light plummet down to Earth. 

He found Rider in an abandoned flower farm. 

He was proud of his work and ready to bring the nightmare to an end. 

The sabre wasn’t crackling with electricity like when Rider wielded it, but the edge was still sharp. 

Rider didn’t say anything or express any sort of emotion. Whatever sliver of a soul he gained during his fights against the jailers was gone. It must have been ripped out of him as he escaped the explosion. 

He bent his head to the side and back a bit, seizing his discarded sword between his neck and shoulder. He was encouraging Mateo’s bloodlust, his drive for vengeance. 

He was so eager to slice Rider’s head off too. To see the muscle of his neck cleaved in half, and to hear the bones snap as its vertebra were sliced through. 

The opportunity to do so was euphoric. 

But Mateo was ordered to freeze, drop his weapon, and step away from the alien. 

He felt like risking getting shot, but he couldn’t leave Esperanza alone again. 

So, instead, he made sure to snatch the sabre back as hard as he could. Blood leaked out from the alien’s throat, the wound covered by its hair. But the stranger stood tall and let it bleed out as he was clamped in chains. 

It wasn’t until they got to its containment facility that they noticed his neck didn’t heal.     

They kept Rider alive, however. They tortured him for information they weren’t able to get from their other prisoner. 

But Rider gave them nothing but pity. 

Back during the war, there was a rumor that a lucky shot once blasted off one of Rider’s arms. But then he simply tore one off a corpse and it sew itself into place. 

To test the rumor, they sawed off both his legs to see if they would regrow like a starfish's’. They didn’t, but Rider did get a new set by killing an unsuspecting nurse. He exhibited some signs of regret afterward. 

He explained that he didn’t do it with malice or even with any actual intention. It was only his algorithm dictating him to live and intact. 

From there, they moved from limbs to nerves. They tried to blind him by frying his optical nerves, and his eyes healed back to perfection. They tried to paralyze him but he kept healing into a more resilient body. 

Mateo didn’t witness the acts of torture themselves, but he always saw the results. 

They wanted to find a way to break the creature they had caged up. Back then, he just wanted Rider to die. 

It was Mateo’s punishment to house Rider in a prison on his property. He, acting as the one and only jailer. 

They had expected him to die within a week at most. He did as well. No one would never have thought otherwise.

* * *

 

Mateo’s hands clenched around the edge of the counter. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Grimacing at the nasty thoughts that tumbled about in his head. 

“Papa, are you okay?” Essie hopped out of her seat to pat at his arm, trying to comfort him. 

He was afraid to speak. Not because he feared he might snap and say something he’ll regret, but more concern with whatever tone he’d speak with. 

Rider was right  _there_ for fuck’s sake. 

“Ranza, how about you go get ready for bed.” Rider gently pushed Esperanza towards the stairs. 

She glanced worriedly between the two of them, hesitant to leave. 

“I won’t do anything stupid. I just need a moment.” Mateo managed to reassure her. 

Essie wasn’t satisfied but went up the stairs anyway. 

Rider stayed where he was. He watched as Mateo pushed himself away from the table and shuffled into the living room. 

Mateo settled down on the couch. He felt feverish, kept wringing his hands together as he breathed his way through. His ears were ringing and his head felt like it was being pressed through a grinder. 

Rider said something, but it was muffled to him. He felt a finger tap his shoulder and more muffled talking before a cold weight settled on top of his shoulders. He jolted and snapped his elbow out, narrowly striking whoever was behind him. 

Rider simply held up his hand and stopped his arm without a flinch.   

“It’s a cold compress.” Rider soothed him. 

“I’m sorry.” He apologized, pressing his hands against his aching ears.

“Do you need me with you for this one?” Rider asked softly but firmly to get his question through. 

Mateo moved the compress to cool the back of his neck. It helped shock him out of the nastier memories and the ringing in his ears drummed out by Rider’s voice. But he was still in a rough place. It was like oil floating on water’s surface. All the bad stuff had risen to clog out the good. 

“Stay,” he said, “just don’t touch me for right now.” 

“Alright.” Rider stepped back. 

Mateo took a minute to focus on his breathing, easier with the cold taming his unruly thoughts. 

“I used you back then.” He talked with Rider. 

“You did. But it also served as a wake-up call to me.” Rider countered. 

“I tortured you for a whole month.” Mateo choked out through the guilt that churned his stomach. 

“You did.” Rider’s voice remained calm and leveled. 

“I’m so sorry for all of it. But don’t you dare forgive me for the things I’ve done.” 

“I won’t.” Rider moved from where ever he was standing to settle on the armrest. “You were awful to me. But you also went down on your hands and knees to apologize to me. Now you’re going through Hell and high water to make amends.” 

Mateo reached a hand over to lay his on top of Rider’s, “I haven’t done enough. You’re still trapped here.” 

Rider smiled at him. He lifted Mateo’s hand up and pressed a kiss on the back of his hand. 

“I’m loved here.” 

It took a while longer for the system shock to numb down. After, Mateo felt drained and static. He rested his head against Rider’s thigh and Rider slowly massaged behind his ears and down his neck. 

“Do you feel better? Think you can go up to our room?” 

Mateo nodded, “Yeah, it wasn’t as bad as it looked.” 

He moved to straighten up but was stopped by a small weight suddenly clutching around his abdomen. 

“Hey Essie, ready for bed?” 

He raked his fingers through her hair, feeling much lighter. 

“Yup!” 

Esperanza held onto both his and Rider’s hands as they walked upstairs to bed. 

As they settled in, Mateo gave Rider a long kiss. He hummed as he pulled away, tasting the familiar flavor of tooth-rotting candy. 

“You’re sweet.” He teased.


	11. Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love mythology so I couldn't resist throwing some in. Ignore this chapter if you're not into a whole chapter of heavy mythos.

_Long before existence, there was nothing. A vast, bottomless Sea, devoid of water. This paradox was naught but a refraction of the Void encompassing it. There was no "thing", no "where", and no "when"._

_Only the empty Sea in stasis._

_No time passed, no years sped by, and no days counted down. The Sea was lonely, but the pain was invisible. Lost in a nameless place, no light to illuminate the way._

_The Sea churned its stomach but nothing came out. The Sea had no voice, for it had no throat. The Sea had no tears, for it had no eyes. The Sea had loneliness that couldn't be, and itself that puzzled nothing._

_The Sea reached deep, deep, unfathomably deep down inside itself. It discovered the end of the Void and the beginning of its creation. At the start of it all and at the end, there was a name. A name spelled with no letters from no language from no mouth._

_The Sea took it for itself. For the Sea found it and the Void that shrouded it could not be to lay claim._

_And so the Sea became Æther. It titled the place that named it; the Abyss._

_Æther called it's deep, deep, unending depths; dimensions. And Æther proclaimed that it was a universe, filling itself with milky water._

_Æther declared its own sentience, and cut away loneliness to create._

_Æther took scraps of the Void and compressed them in its depths. Then Æther rolled the cores along its sparkling surface, disturbing the stasis into waves that traced the passage of its actions._

_Æther created the first universe, stars, time, and turned the Void into Matter on the first day._

_On another day, Æther utilized its creations to pierce the darkness. Using the stars to shimmer against the darkness of the Void, Æther baptized all with light. It saw itself above the universe and the Void, distinguishing itself as Eternity._

_Æther became space, disconnected from the universe and the Void._

_On that same day, Æther dipped its fingers into the universe and spun a whirlpool, creating a galaxy. Æther dropped orbs of matter and a star into the currents._

_The star settled in the eye of the Galaxy and became the first Sun. The matter clashed against each other, splintering and conforming. Some became asteroids and some soaked up bits of the universe and became planets._

_Pleased with itself, Æther repeated the process many times for many eons. Eventually abandoning the first of its creations._

_The planets of the first galaxy grew and produced many wonders. But it was the smallest of them all that drew Æther back._

_A planet of water sat calm and idyllic. Like Æther, the Ocean was lonely but crafty. It would take fragments of meteors that crashed into its depths and nurture them into life._

_One day, the Ocean created fish, plants, and biomes._   _But the fish could not speak, only nibble on sustenance the Ocean had no need to savor in._

_On another day, the Ocean created predators and disease._

_The Ocean reveled in the ensuing chaos, for it brought excitement. However, to retain order, the Ocean guided its creations to their respective niches._

_The Ocean created survival and nature; its own vicious entertainment._

_On yet another day, the Ocean tucked itself in, pulling back the tides to reveal the planet's crust, dark and plated._

_The Ocean molded the flesh of sharks into the shape of Men, letting it dry and tan in the sunlight. The Ocean waited days and nights for its newest creation to live but Men's eyes did not open._

_The Ocean raged, creating storms of lightning and thunder. The Ocean cursed its ineptitude to create sapient life._

_It was then, Æther embraced the Ocean's planet. Æther gifted the Ocean a fragment of the Abyss; Æther's heart. Æther told the Ocean to start anew but made the Ocean promise to use the flesh of dolphins instead. To create Men as gentle, but fierce creatures. That played and protected, and were cunning and mischievous._

_The Ocean kept its promise, thanking Æther and calling it Mother._

_The Ocean shaped the smooth flesh the same as before. But the Ocean didn't feel that Men was beautiful enough to deserve a drop of life. The Ocean cupped the foam at its edges and gave Men locks of hair. The Ocean took the roar of its waves and slipped it down Men's throat to give Men a voice of power. The Ocean ripped and sew seaweed and shells and precious jewels to dress Men in clothes and jewelry._

_Once finished the Ocean sang to the heart of Æther and blessed Men with life._

_As Men awoke, their eyes were dark as there was no colorful sky to reflect. Men looked towards the Ocean and sang their prayers and praise, calling the Ocean Mother._

_This filled the Ocean with joy and love. The Ocean gave Men dominion over all animals and gifted Men every day for their songs. Men returned the Ocean's love in kind, believing the Ocean to be true and perfect. Everyday Men created words of flattery, and together Men and the Ocean created the mortal soul and love._

_One day Men called out to the Ocean, "You're kind and gracious, bestowing me the honor of being your child. You clothe me and feed me delicacies. You're far beyond my reach and as far above me as the stars. Please let me create you a gift aside from lilted words."_

_The Ocean parted to give Men access to any and all resources they wanted._   _Men spent a day crafting and planning. At dusk they reached out their arms, presenting a train of pale blue silk._

" _A dress worthy of a goddess." Men's gift brought forth tears of joy from the Ocean._

_The Ocean wore Men's gift, twirling in place to watch the fabric flare out._

_The Ocean looked into Men's eyes to thank them but discovered their pitch blackness. Finding this distasteful, the Ocean threw its blue shawl towards the sun._

_The sky became blue during the day and reflected in Men's eyes._

_Years passed and Men began to weaken. The Ocean grieved and stormed as Men's breath became more and more shallow, and their songs turned mute. The Ocean forced the fragment of Æther into Men's heart to revive them but it was for naught._

_Æther descended upon the Ocean rebuking the derailed goddess for its wastefulness. Æther was unable to comprehend the love the Ocean held for Men. But Æther did not want to witness any more of the Ocean's tears. So Æther uplifted Men's soul and turned it into the moon. To reflect upon the Ocean's surface, to bring comfort and cool its Mother's mourning._

_The Ocean begged Æther to give it one final fragment of itself and Æther granted it to the Ocean. But again had the Ocean swear another promise. That as the Ocean re-created Men, it must also create three sisters. Three sisters to rule beside the Ocean and have creations and domains of their own right._

_The Ocean promised. The Ocean re-created Men's form and fused the piece of Æther with its own heart, blessing Men anew with eternal life._

_As Men stood, they reached out to the Ocean. The Ocean told them to dance and so Men did._   _Men's feet kicked up gravel and the Ocean clenched the sediment in its palms and crushed it._

_The Ocean created the first of its sister's; Land._

_Lands created seasons of vegetation and fauna and animals of hooves and paws. Land instilled Men with a sense of wonderment and the will to explore. But Land held no love for Men and forbid them from walking in its domain. Men could not tame nor eat anything Land created or else locusts hatched from their organs._

_The Ocean despised Land for this. It cursed Land to have torrential downpour to wear away Land's kingdom until it gave in. But Land simply lets the roots soak up the water as it carved out a throne of granite._

_The Ocean told Men to strike Land's trees with coral and so Men did. Sparks spew and the trees went aflame. The Ocean corralled the wildfire with mud and used smoke for the lungs of its second sister; Fire._

_Fire called forth magma from the planet's mantle. Fire pushed Land's domain up into peaks to erupt and scorch Land's kingdom to ash. Land finally surrendered and gifted Men with a bow to hunt. Fire created titans of scales and a forge. Fire instilled passion in Men and made Men want to enjoy the life given to them to the fullest._

_At Men's first hunt, they shot down a buck and was immediately regretful. Men captured the beast's final breath and offered it to the Ocean to honor._

_The Ocean accepted and created its final sister; Air._

_Air spread throughout the entire world, bringing relief from Fire's heat and letting Men breathe. Air created animals of wings and hurricanes. Air instilled ambition in Men and made Men yearn to grow beyond who they were._

_Men called out to the four sisters to gather for a gift._

_Men pointed to Air and named it; Aoxlma._

_Men pointed to Fire and named it; Hersia._

_Men pointed to Land and named it; Bugyma._

_And then Men pointed to the Ocean and named it; Nirvana._

_Time passed and Aoxlma was passive to the work of its sisters. Nirvana continued to love and care for Men. Bugyma sat on its throne and carved its Kingdom day in and day out to suit its fancies. Bugyma experimented with its creations and did not spare Men's wander a glance._

_Hersia used its forge to craft a spear; Bol'grag and gifted it to Men, requesting them to dance with it. Men did and found empowerment in their movements. Men felt complete with the gift. Bol'grag was like an extension of their arms._

_Nirvana saw Hersia's work and determined to gift Men with a weapon as well._

_Nirvana gave Men a lovely sword, able to coax Nirvana's lightning around the blade. Men loved the sword as well and always wore it at their hip in ceremony._

_Hersia taught Men how to train and discipline their bodies. Nirvana feared this training would bring conflict among them but left its children be. For Nirvana could not bear to have Men resent it._

_Hersia soothed Nirvana, swearing to stop its teaching if it became ill-bound._

_Hersia watched Men diligently to uphold its promise to Nirvana. And soon adored Men just as much._

_Men prayed to Hersia to fulfill their passions. To teach them how to enjoy themselves as they faced daring adventures._

_Men and Fire became close as blood kin. Nirvana watched them with jealousy but could not bring itself to anger. For seeing the smile on Men faces reminded Nirvana of the first of them and it wept. Nirvana mourned its first-born and wondered if Hersia was more fit to be Men's mother._

_But as Nirvana wept, Hersia and Bugyma argued. Bugyma has offended Hersia, calling Fire naught but destruction, and a monster. In an effort to defend Hersia, fueled by their passion, Men impaled Bal'grog into Bugyma's gut. Bugyma screamed and swiped at Men, shattering its own domain in a massive earthquake._

_Hersia fought against the raging Bugyma, guarding over Men as they retreated._

_Aoxlma saw it all and sent a dove to inform Nirvana, using hurricanes to subdue the fight._

_Enraged at Hersia teaching Men how to fight, Nirvana drew back it's skirt to leave Hersia's flames burning. Enraged at Bugyma for striking its children, Nirvana repeatedly tortured Bugyma with lightning._

_Hersia went onto its knees and pleaded for forgiveness. Hersia promised to return to its ashy domain and remain there. Just so Nirvana can put out the wildfire Hersia accidentally set in Bugyma's domain._

_Aoxlma brokered a deal with Nirvana to settle its rage. Aoxlma would take in Men for twenty lifetimes to teach them diplomacy. During that time Hersia's flames would completely burn away Bugyma's domain. Then Nirvana would wash it to create fertile soil. But Bugyma would be imprisoned beneath the planet's mantle to be forgotten._

_Nirvana would also flood Hersia's domain and drench Fire into a statue. Hersia's soul would become a hearth for Men's home and provide guidance and wisdom to Men for prayers._

_So it went and Men established a civilization._

* * *

Vern stretched in their seat, rubbing at their groggy eyes.

Their hand ached. It was hard researching the mythos of the planet. So many different versions, so many different names, that it was hard to pick out the shards of truth among them. They managed to write down the closest to the original as they could get and was ready to submit it to the Council.

They gave the book to Murdok and sighed in relief.

But even with their work done, Vern couldn't help the feeling of incompleteness. There was still a bit of the legend to write. Blasphemous but important, to them at least.

So they reached for fresh sheets and their stylus and set to work again.

* * *

_Men kept their origins throughout time. They prayed and praised their goddesses. But two slept in stone, and one was of passive indifference. Only Nirvana made sure to care for its children._

_So it was only Nirvana who brought unholy wrath upon the invaders. Strangers crashed into their little world, bringing terror, hell, and death anew to Men. Men fought back bravely. But they were still slaughtered until only one remained._

_The strongest of Men was bound and stolen._

_Nirvana's waves reached as high as the sun to snatch back its one remaining child. But for naught. The last of Men slashed Nirvana's fingers to keep their Mother safe. For the invaders were too many and too beyond their little world._

_Nirvana wept and flooded Bugyma's kingdom. Nirvana sobbed and swallowed Hersia's volcano. And Nirvana fumed at Aoxlma. Nirvana cursed its sister for doing nothing to save its children. Nirvana stifled the sky with storms and lightning. It murdered Aoxlma, making the world suffocate. Left alone to insatiable bloodlust, Nirvana fell into a slumber. Aching with loneliness, and neglected the small planet to rot._

_Æther saw it all. Æther clutched at its chest. Æther felt as though the strangers ripped out its heart as well as they stole Men from Nirvana's grasp. But Æther was the penultimate, space itself, and so had not the means nor capacity for revenge._

_But Æther was still the creator. Æther was all that is, have been, and will be. So Æther reached to Men's soul to speak through Men's lips._

" _Keep this child, raise them, and train them to your hearts' content. Wage war with Men's strength, strangle your foes with Men's hands and slice through planets with Men's blades. For you have won. You stole their God's most precious creation, and now they cried themselves to sleep. Rejoice in your victory, toast each other with your finest luxuries. But wait in fear. Let terror wrack your minds and haunt your thoughts. In your arrogance, and in your ignorance, this invasion will be your undoing and your world will rot around you for it. Feast, and let your greatest conquest be your undoing."_

_One of the strangers spoke to the last Men, "The creature has gone mad. Gods? For such impressive warriors, they were truly naive."_

_The invaders laughed and mocked Æther._

_"Tell me, soldier, just how could we have set our own destruction?"_

_Æther glared through Men's eyes and the strangers became disturbed._

" _You do not believe in the concept of the soul," Æther answered._

_Æther abandoned Men with some pale thing resembling regret. But Æther still went on to create more and left Men to their fate._


	12. Pickets

He was there at the front when the smoke and dust cleared up. The NSA was only able to report the object hurtling towards the country a few hours before it was guessed to hit. They took the panicked route and ordered the National Guard to evacuate whatever cities they can reach.

Then again maybe it was the expected reaction. The world thrummed with anxiety ever since they first noticed the dot on the sun. Some expected the sun was dying, some theorized something speeding by (maybe a comet or a large asteroid) was caught by its gravitational pull.  _That_ caused a bit of excitement among some scientists, something about the potential of a new planet forming. 

He, personally, leaned towards the apocalyptic. It just seemed more realistic. A view that his friends taunted him with.

“What just happened?” Emon was knocked back from the shock of the meteor crashing down. Right in front of them.

“Shut up.” He hissed, lifting his gun to aim straight ahead of him. 

They were sweeping through the streets, corralling any stragglers to the checkpoint. Then there was a pitched whine, like a jet swooping down low and then sharply pulling back up. It made them scatter to whatever cover they could find.

The ground trembled before the meteor ever hit it. For a moment, the dirt and litter were tossed up in a dust devil, he even saw cars slightly lift, before it dispersed with a _boom_ , shattering back against the pavement. The crash did something to the automobiles, streetlights, buildings, and electric lines because they all either fizzled out or blew up. Bodies flung past him, some died before they smashed back down to the ground. Flames roared and set off a chain of minor explosions, catching gas and plants. 

Their armored truck was blown back and started to roll. They all clawed at their ears as their ear pieces shrieked. Their radios were fried, the breath knocked out of them, and whatever the hell crashed was waiting for them behind the smog. 

They finally got as much visibility as they could when surround by burning buildings and cars. A massive crater pulled the city down to its center. The road was upheaved around the perimeter into jagged spikes, guarding the dip of the crash site from their view. 

“Shouldn’t we be dead right now? Shit blew up. We should be pretty dead right now!” Dimès was clutching at the back of his head. His red hair was matted with dirt and blood from some shallow head wound clumped it all together.

“Guns up! Where’s Seta?!” He hollered out.

 Emon looked at him like he was mad.

“Calm down. She’s most likely in the best shape out of all of us.”  Emon pushed at his shoulder and coughed raucously. “We need to get out of here.”

He didn’t budge so Emon pulled with as much strength as he had yelling, “Now!”

He wasn’t expecting such force. Emon was short-tempered when he first joined the military but had since mellowed out since the birth of his son. Became the model honorable soldier. He almost forgot that the man was still strong enough to lift half of his platoon. 

He damn near tripped over his own feet in surprise, but worse he panicked. Being frazzled with shock, grief, and worry about his friends made him vulnerable to mistakes. As he nearly tripped, his eyes shot upwards and his finger slipped onto the trigger.

The shot made everyone jump. Thankfully he didn’t accidentally shoot any of the other soldiers.

“... What the fuck is that?” Dimès spoke like his chest was being compressed. His words going fainter and lasting longer with every breath.

Everyone else either screamed and aimed their guns, shaking, or fell to their knees.

His eyes slowly rolled down from the sky, back towards the crater.

On the teeth of the ridge, a lone figure, male judging by the body, stood and stared at them. Silent. Judging. And unimpressed. 

Right in the middle of the man’s forehead was a hole that was slowly shrinking before disappearing without a trace. The skin smooth and scar-free. 

If the impact didn’t crush his rib cage the astonishment at whatever the hell was in front of him did.

“Everyone,  _please_ , stand down,” Emon whispered in the tense silence, pleading in fear.

“Fuck. No.” Dimès hushed him. 

 The thing in front of them wasn’t reacting or moving. But for a second its face scrunched up a bit, something (its tongue?) jostling around before it lifted a hand and picked something out of its mouth. 

It held out a bullet by its pointer and thumb, letting the hint of what happened to sink in before tossing the bullet away. Then it crossed its arms and went right back at silently summing them up.

He didn’t know how, but he knew that it could kill every one of them.

He gasped in mouthfuls of thick air, kindling his senses and voice back.

“Retreat!” He ordered.

Most of those who could move followed his command. Emon had to punch Dimès out of shock to get him running.

As he started to run away himself though, someone fired. The bullets went right past the thing or straight into it. 

The creature flinched for a moment before easily taking a stand against the spray and jumped towards its attackers. 

He had already turned away from the slaughter but the sounds of it were definitely going to haunt him harsher than anything else in his life. 

As the thing picked off his men one by one, he ran after the others. At one point his legs gave out and he slammed down to the ground.

He felt hands grasped at his collar, and he struck behind him.

“Easy Atlas, it’s me. Seta!” His friend pulled him to his feet and slung his right arm over her shoulders. She had a nasty gash going across her face, grazing her eye before cutting clean through her nose bridge.

“Go. Run.” He gasped out, trying to move his weight off her.

“I can handle you sack of meat. Come on.” She jostled him back to her side and pushed them forward.

They didn’t get far before the thing caught up to them of course.

Something searing hot and electric blasted into them, paralyzed them both midstep.

They fell to the ground facing each other, gasping, shaking, and praying.

Bare feet stepped in to stand inbetween their lines of sight. 

Seta reached out a shaking hand and stabbed her nails into the thing’s ankles. It merely shook her hand off. 

He looked up and saw that it still had the same look; Unimpressed. And it was pissing him off.

Seta tried to force herself to her knees. But the thing pressed her back down again with a foot and aimed some sort of gun at the back of her head.

“No!” He shouted, pushing himself up and grabbing the thing into a chokehold. 

It struggled but he only made his grip tighter and tried his damnedest to break its neck.

One moment he had the creature crushed in his arms and the next, it fazed out of his grasp. He felt something like cold air across his shoulders and then weightlessness.

Seta was screaming, pissed and cussing. He managed to look down to see two arms bleeding out on the gravel, missing the rest of a body,  _his_ body, before blacking out.  


	13. Wisteria

The garden was blooming wonderfully. It was an island of watercolors, swaying in a mechanical breeze.

She had a garden of her own before Rider joined her gilded cage but she was never able to get it to blossom like he did.

How ironic, that the man who corrupted Earth with every step also had quite the green thumb.

She watched Rider’s back as he crouched and plucked out weeds. She was cautious to admit to herself that she caught herself admiring the man more and more often.

As time went on, Rider showed her the smallest glimpses of himself in big ways. He rarely tried to initiate physical contact between them without her making the first move. And even then, he was careful. Either because he sensed she was scared or because he thought humans were fragile, she wasn’t 100% sure.

Or maybe he was always like that. It wouldn’t be hard to believe, seeing how he tended to their garden. She had a bit of a specialty in growing fruits and vegetables as her mother ran a homegrown cafe.

Rider, though, had a fondness for flowers. He’d slowly described to her his home world to explain. How the capital was walled in from their barren gray planet, nitty gritty streets filled with juveniles and vagrants, glossed over with the paradise of the elite in the center. The picture of retro cyberpunk.

So any who had the capabilities to grow something as beautiful and rare as flowers in the city were valued. He only ever saw a handful of such people and he always admired the bouquets they would make.

The way her planet treated plantlife baffled him though. He understood the necessity to harvest resources but to decimate the very matter that made her planet survivable was the dumbest thing he’s seen a sapient species do.

She didn’t even think of how beautiful her world was until after Rider landed on Earth. One of the many things he made her realize about herself.

Rider was clipping off dead leaves and sweeping fallen petals into a pile to turn into mulch later.

It took a long and arduous meeting to convince her superiors to give her all this. Usually, the threat of Rider becoming bored and breaking out served as more than ample coercion.

When she admitted that to Rider, he shook his head and said that empty threats don’t work long term.

She was still reeling from that.

She stood up from the bench and draped herself over Rider’s back, wrapping her arms around him.

She felt his laughter.

“Are you getting jealous again?” He teased her. Speaking to her was easier for him to do, he showed to be rather eloquent at times.

She tsked in denial but couldn’t help a smile as she remembered the very rocky start to their… Relationship? Are they far enough in to call it that instead of mutual assurance? Rider might have been from the beginning but she was still hesitant.

She leaned into his neck, breathing him in. He smelt of bark, of the flowers, and the lake. But underneath the aroma, there was a hint of something that must have latched onto him from his homeworld. Something like burning metal, oil, and what she imagined must be the stars.

She kissed his neck and vaguely wondered if she could taste it all too.

She felt Rider tense up in surprise.

“You don’t like that?” She asked, genuinely curious.

Rider shook his head, turning to look at her with a small, sad smile.

“It’s alright. I just wasn’t expecting you to do that.” He said.

She could tell what he was thinking. That she was acting out of loneliness, that it wasn’t him she was thinking of when she did that and was just making do with what she had. Rider was aloof, mysterious, and withdrawn, but at the same time, his emotions pulled the strings behind everything he did. She just learned the motions.

“I can help you get used to it.” She spoke softly but she wasn’t really shy.

Rider may have had the threatening demeanor but she realized early on that she was the one in control.

Rider sucked in a breath, his ears even turned red before he relaxed in her arms with a chuckle. But he didn’t say anything.

She peered over his shoulder to look at the garden.

There were pink carnations, sunflowers, Queen’s Anne Lace, Asters, lavender heather, anemone, so on and so forth including her favorite; Orchids.

She saw Rider had a stalk of hydrangea flowers in his hands. He was feeding the stems around each other, looping them through and back. She hugged his chest as he weaved them into a flower crown.

When he was done, he turned around to face her. With a soft look, he placed the crown on her head, brushing his fingers through her hair.

It was simple, something she considered childish too. But after having been isolated for so long, fearing every day could bring disaster again and then relaxing under the pressure of that fear, she was grateful. It brought a smile to her face as she thanked him.

She wanted to repay him in kind, so she scanned through her options. She didn’t know the language of flowers as well as she wanted, unlike Rider who certainly picked the hydrangeas for a specific reason.

She remembered her grandmother having a bouquet for every occasion, having been a florist. Her grandmother would try to teach her as natural a way as possible; giving her flowers meant to celebrate when she succeeded, comfort flowers when she was down, and always having ribbons of a specific flower leading up the road to her home for visitors.

She recognized the way it looked, she just wasn’t certain on the name. The vines were a bit of a hassle to grow.

The bluish-purple blossoms were as beautiful as ever. She reached for the closest bundle and carefully clipped off the flowers.

Rider watched, curious to what she was doing, but left her be.

She wrapped the stems around as she saw Rider do, but bundled the flowers together to hang out like a veil. When she was done, she walked over to Rider and fixed the flowers to entwine with his white hair.

He was shocked, mouth slightly agape, and reached to his head to feel the crown. He slowly began to smile and chuckled to himself again.

“What are you laughing about?” She asked.

He smiled at her, reaching up to smooth his fingers along her cheek.

“If I told you, you’d try to take it back.”


	14. Exposition

She crashed through one day, frantically searching for something. No one noticed her at first.

She didn’t land anywhere close to civilization. She was stuck in a vast cell of preserved land for the longest time before anyone found her.

She sometimes tripped across the cameras set up to observe wild life. But she was gone by the time wildlife experts came to check out what the odd creature was.

They thought she was a sick canine at first, running around on all fours, furless and pink-skinned.

But they found some prints in the mud that were eerily human, and some trees along the tracks torn to shreds by thin, sharp claws. 

Teenagers online theorized she was some sort of cryptid. They got pretty damn close too.

Eventually, she barreled into the walls that fenced in the enclosure. And that was when she was first captured.

A group of men on patrol for poachers heard her roaring and looked down to see her scratching at the gate. They were terrified. She looked nothing like an animal.

According to their testimonies, she has huge, yellow sheep-like eyes. And stiff blonde hair that grew out curving down over her back, reminiscent of a porcupine’s quills. That her face draws out like she’s supposed to have a muzzle.

One man said, “Imagine someone fucked a deer and had its baby. That was its face. Its creepy, nightmare fucking face!”

They were the only ones who saw her before black trucks moved in to control, or cover-up, the situation.

The public raged. Some demanded to see the creature, most called it a hoax. 

The administrator of the EPA soon claimed that the guards were high on something, mistaking a diseased wolf for a monster.

It was a pain in the ass to deal with.

Mateo threw down the reports with a huff and rubbed at his aching temples. He felt nauseous, and every joint in his body ached from pulling three all-nighters back to back. It seemed like he’ll have to stay up 24/7 for the rest of his life to get through half of the paperwork on his desk alone.

He stomped every newspaper article and every slip of paper that didn’t require his signature into the trash bin. Kicking it over to spill out onto the glossy floor at one point.

“This is such bullshit.” He hissed through his teeth.

It wasn’t until a year into being a personal architect for the government that he found out that he was collaborating with NASA to build, not a space station, but a prison. Although, it wasn’t that hard to figure out once they requested him to make it virtually inescapable and locked from the outside mid-way through planning.

Then it wasn’t until nearly another two years passed that he was finally allowed to see the prisoner that he was building the massive cell for.

And he’s been having nightmares about that creature since. It was pinned to the floor with huge weights. IV’s were strung about everywhere. Soldiers posted on guard duty sniped at it with sedatives every hour. And the  _screaming_. There was no doubt that it could feel everything that was happening to it.

It was poked and prodded. Strips of pink flesh were peeled away to reveal white muscles and gray bones.

He’s seen it pace back and forth like an agitated dog for the daily hour it was observed untethered. It would sometimes try to stand up like a human, only able to get as far as animals could do, before lunging towards the glass and bashing itself against its room.

It would slam and slam and slam its head against the walls until it beat itself bloody.

But it looked like a woman despite it all; albeit a demonic woman. It had breasts, it had a vagina, and a rushed CT scan revealed it more or less had the same major organs as a human.

A “she“, the scientists concluded brilliantly. Maybe if more like her had turned up, they would have concluded that she was a member of the homo sapien branch. An individual of an underground species that evolved from another animalistic ancestor at the dawn of time alongside humans. That’s what they were hoping for at least.

But after scouring the woods she was captured in, they figured out what she was really was. A burnt crater, nestling some sort of fried pod that looked like it belonged in Tron gave it away.

An alien. It was fascinating and horrifying. 

The NSA had them take the whole operation, everything, and everyone, completely off the grid. Their work was scrubbed off all government records.

He felt like a joke. He can still walk around in public during broad daylight. Still flaunt his bachelorhood for a few quick hook-ups, and pass out drunk with his friends. Like it was another normal day. But on the side, he was to keep an homicidally insane alien locked away in space to cover up that fact that homicidally insane aliens existed.

He and every other person caught up in it all were sworn to secrecy. Paid off or threatened, it didn’t matter. Most kept quiet from the sheer pressure of it all. If that thing got out, what the hell would happen? They didn’t want to find out.

He left his office, grabbing the cup of coffee his assistant was about to bring him. He waved her off and went to the one place he could actually collect his thoughts.

It was disturbing in a way. That he could only think straight while staring at the source of all his confusion.

He sat in the observation room for a while. Sipping his coffee, sometimes daring to tap his fingers against the two-way mirror.

The alien didn’t react. It was either unconscious via drugs or sleeping. He didn’t care to know.

After some time, the door opened and two people walked in. He didn’t recognize either of them. Maybe he knew the lady in the lab coat, might have passed her in the halls once or twice, but he never bothered to memorize any of his co-workers.

But he didn’t know the old man dressed only in a nappy, trotting up to the window to gaze at the alien with a thoughtful hum. The old man was super short and hunched over. He looked like he came there straight from bed. Puffy gray hair, beard, and eyebrows. He had a stone lodged in his belly button.

Mateo was going to go insane.

“Who’s the guru?” He rasped out to the scientist. His throat hurt after being up for so long.

“I am actually a monk. Although not by standard means.” The old man answered him.

He turned around to face Mateo, waving for the scientist to leave. She did, and the two men were left alone in the observation room to stare at each other. 

“You are Mateo Kahlo, correct?” The old man stuck his hand out for a shake.

Mateo returned the gestured, saying, “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

The old man shook his head, “I threw away my name along with my other possessions when I took to the path of enlightenment. You can simply refer to me however you will.”

_‘Of course, he did.’_  Mateo sighed at the newest bit of complication.

“Alright, gramps. Why are you here?”

“I’m here to provide information as to the intentions of the woman you and your country are holding prisoner,” The monk answered.

“And how the hell would you know that?” Mateo crossed his arms, setting his cup aside on a table.

“I traveled and learned much during my aging years. I spoke to a variety of spiritualists and scholars. I visited Holy sites, and places thought to have been abandoned by whoever created us. So I picked up a few tricks here and there.”

The old man turned his attention to the alien on the other side of the glass.

“She’s looking for someone. She wants to stop them, from coming here and destroying this world. She didn’t intend to clash with us. But if she becomes free she won’t hesitate to strike us down if we get in her way of stopping the threat to come.” He spoke like he was reading out a book.

Mateo blew out his lips, “Bullshit.”

The old man turned back toward him with a considerate look.

“You’re Mateo Kahlo. You’re 22 years old, graduated with honors at the top of your classes. Your mother is Elfriede Belmonte-Kahlo. You have an older sister and brother, both half-siblings through your mother. Their father is dead, killed in action in an unnecessary war. Yours was Fujita Hiroto. It was a brief, physical relationship. Your mother and he never married. He paid upfront for whatever your mother would need and left when she got pregnant. Mrs. Belmonte raised you and your siblings by herself on her meager waitress earnings.”

Mateo was stunned. Then he understood and chuckled at himself for being mystified. 

“Stay out of my personal history.”

The old man shrugged.

“I wouldn’t have pried into your background if I had the choice. When I approached your superiors with what I knew, they shoved everything to know about everyone here in my face. It just happened to include you as well.” He stared Mateo down.

“But there are some things they don’t know about you. Your greed, your selfishness, and how brash you are. The men in charge of this whole operation see everyone here as nothing more than tools. And you see  _them_ as a means to an end.”

“So, you’re to lecture me on what? Human decency?” He laughed. 

Mateo knows who he is and all his vices. So long as he can control himself, he doesn’t need speeches.

“Hardly. Though I do prefer to shed light on the sources behind them.” 

The monk waited for a bit and Mateo gave the go-ahead to continue, curious. 

“You hate your older brother, Delmer. He is sadistic. He mocks your Asian heritage and pushed you to the point of attacking him. He cried to your mother and you were punished in his place. If anything were to happen to him, you wouldn’t care.” The old man gave him a compassionate look.

So that’s where the old man was taking this.

“Well, pleasant chat. I’m off to work.”  He moved off his seat to walk out of the room. But the monk grabbed his arm to stop him.

“I understand you’re tired and agitated. But it is for your best health to do some introspection.”  

“I don’t need to. Just because he’s family doesn’t mean I should love him. He lost that right long ago. I’ve dealt with it, so don’t pity me.” Mateo argued. 

He nodded, “Your sense of perseverance is strong. I’m glad you’re the kind that takes things in stride. There is much to come where such a trait will be vital. Both without and within yourself.”

“For the sake of my sanity, stop with the cryptic bullshit.” Mateo tried to gently shake him off. 

The old man held on and continued. 

“Your older sister, Jaliyah, is a lot more amenable. You feel more relaxed around her like you can be yourself. I hope you come to cherish your time together.”

The monk seemed like he had more to say but he suddenly went into a coughing fit, hard enough to make Mateo’s lungs hurt. Thankfully, the monk let go of him to cover up his mouth. 

“You okay, gramps?” Mateo resumed walking to the door, to get someone to help the old man and to get away from him.

He grabbed the attention of someone passing by and went to leave as they fussed over the monk.

“Esperanza.” The old man huffed out. 

Mateo stopped and turned to face him again.

The old man stared back at him with a glint in his eyes like a cat that got the cream.

“I recommend the name Esperanza.” 

The monk was shuffled out of the observation room and towards the doctors. Leaving Mateo dumbstruck in the hallway.

He shook his head and walked back to his office. He plopped himself down in his chair, but couldn’t find the energy to pick up a sheet of paper.

He accidentally left his phone next to an enormous pile on his desk. It buzzed and Mateo managed to reach over to answer the call. He didn’t bother to check the number.

“Yeah, who is it?” He asked.

“It’s Mary. Mary Jones.” A sweet voice drawled out.

“Sweetheart, I met a lot of Mary Jones.” He could really go for some Tylenol and his Jacuzzi. 

“The blonde chick in jean booty shorts you had Gold Rush with at a strip club. Promised to date after sex and then haven’t called once in the four months after.”

He vaguely remembered now.

“Yeah.” He started sinking in his chair, ready to get verbally grind down to a pulp for his play boy ways.

“Well, now you’re _obligated_ to buy me a drink.” She took a deep breath, and Mateo felt his stomach drop to his toes. “I’m pregnant.”


	15. Jealousy: The Voice

Mateo traced the lip of his glass, full with whiskey, and simmered in his seat as he watched the gangly, camo, sideways cap fucker lean his back against the bar in an attempt to look smooth to Rider.

He should have expected it honestly. This was his and Rider’s first time to a gay bar. They’ve been to regular bars and a pub or two before. But the place caught Rider’s eye and he wanted to understand what the difference was.

The place had a warm atmosphere, the drinks were tasteful, and the people were cordial. The bartender explained to Rider that the place was a gay bar as a means of sanctuary for the people inside. Rider was quick to understand, and quicker to warm up to the other patrons.

At some point, Rider drank four people under the table with some sort of lung burning tonic and became the immediate star of the night. It was the most social Mateo’s ever seen him outside of himself and Esperanza.

Some men came up to Rider of course, offering to buy him a drink or ask for a dance. It irked him. Rider turned down their offers, saying he was with his lover, gesturing towards him. They all backed down at that for the most part.

Sometimes Mateo pulled Rider closer to kiss him to ward off any interested eyes. Threw in a glare or two also. Rider gave him a look, curious and worried but didn’t voice any concerns.

Rider also took to saddling up against Mateo now and then, kissing him on the cheek. It was calming him, no doubt Rider’s intention.

Then a group of boisterous, crude, and outright obnoxious men barged in. They were dressed in baggy camo pants and rugged tank tops. Their whole image screamed;  _“It’s just a preference”_.

For as loud as they were, they took to nesting in the farthest corner, whispering dares to each other to order from the bar.

“What’s with those men?” Rider asked the bartender.

The woman sighed, “They come down, make a ruckus, and I always end up kicking them out. I dare not ban them from here or they’ll run off crying to cops.”

She glared at the men as one of them started to saunter their way towards the bar.

“I recommend ignoring whatever they say. And there’s a little, unspoken rule here to not let anyone walk out with them. Especially new kids. The last time a young teen boy went with them, he was found beaten bloody.” She looked at Rider with a pleading look. “The police half-assed the whole investigation.”  

Rider nodded, understanding the depth of the situation.

Mateo did too. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get involved. He was about to suggest to Rider that they leave but the guy from the group slammed a hand on the bar and demanded a drink.

The bartender rolled her eyes but turned to mix his order anyway. The bastard even ogled her ass.

Mateo pulled Rider close to him, practically breathing on his neck.

“Are you alright? Want to move to another seat?” Rider asked.

“I think we sho-” Mateo was cut off by a whistle.

The guy was staring at Rider, looking a little shocked but with a predatory glint in his eyes.

“Damn, ain’t you pretty?!” He catcalled.

_‘More than pretty.’_  Mateo thought as he shot the boy a derisive sneer.

It was true though. Rider was dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans that hugged nicely to his body. Add to that flowing white hair, deep blue eyes, and a handsome face; Rider was a feast for the eyes. 

Rider sniffed at the comment.

“Not interested.” 

“Oh come on, I bet a gorgeous face like that would look great-” 

Rider stood up from his stool and towered over the guy, if not by physical height then sheer presence.

“Shut up. Take your drink. And get out with your friends.” He ordered. His tone brooked no argument.

The guy shrunk down clearly discouraged from talking back. He turned to his clique but they frantically waved their hands. They were encouraging him to stay there.

The guy bucked back up once the bartender slid his drink to him.

“Okay, I’ll keep quiet. So you can put those claws away.” He chuckled nervously.

Rider sat back down, leaning onto Mateo and laying his head on his shoulder.

“I want to hit him.” He admitted.

Mateo laughed a bit at that.

“Do you want to leave?” He asked, hoping he’d say yes.

But Rider shook his head, so he combed his fingers through Rider’s hair. For reassurance.

He asked the bartender for whiskey straight-up and that brought it up to his current predicament.

The guy’s been glancing at Rider, stretching himself out as if to show off, introduced himself as “Jordan”, and making short flirtations to him. Even asking Rider for his name, where he was from, and where he worked. Rider completely ignored him.

With every word that left the bastard’s mouth, Mateo had to fight down the urge to snap. Then the guy tried to stroke Rider’s arm and he had enough. He shot down the whiskey in one gulp and grabbed Rider to walk out.

“We’re leaving,” He said.

“Alright, but you need to calm down.” Rider gently shook his arm to get Mateo to let him go.

Mateo apologized, letting go, and breathed.

He might have been able to calm down if it wasn’t for the fucker.

As Rider stood up, giving his thanks to the bartender for the night, Jordan shot up to get in his way. “Accidentally” bumping into Rider and “accidentally” grabbing onto his hips.

Jordan’s “apology” was smarmy and disgusting.

Mateo snapped.

“Fuck off!” He grabbed the guy, slamming him back into the bar so hard that glasses fell over.

The bartender screamed at him to take it outside and took the opportunity to demand the rest of Jordan’s gang to leave too. His friends were already out the door at that point.

“Dude calm down!” Jordan panicked.

“Mateo, let him go.” Rider grabbed onto his shoulders and gently pulled him away.

When he twisted his hand into Jordan’s shirt, Rider reached out to pry him off.

“We’re going home. And we’re going to talk about this.” Rider whispered into his ear.

What was there to talk about? The fucker deserved what was coming to him!

“Mateo if you attack him, the blame will be pinned on me.” Rider pleaded, turning to his last resort.

That jolted Mateo out of his anger. He was right.

He reluctantly let the man go, backing up into Rider’s embrace. Rider apologized to everyone for the spat and guided him out.

He thinks Jordan fainted, he didn’t look back to check though.

Once outside, it was near pitch black, close to midnight, and four agents in suits crept out of the shadows towards them.

“Not a damn word. Just lay off, I’ll handle everything tomorrow.” He was exhausted.

He could see they wanted to grab Rider and take him straight to interrogation but Mateo stepped in front of him and reiterated his order.

The agents were their watchers, but he was still of a far superior rank than them. They called his chauffeur and tailed them up to his driveway.

He knew Rider was going to give him an earful, not that it was undeserved.

He should have just had them left before he got to the breaking point.

Once inside Rider’s cell/their shared home, Rider looked at Mateo, slightly disappointed but hugged him anyway.

Mateo pressed a kiss into his hair and hummed appreciatively.

“Do you feel better now?” Rider asked, letting him go.

“I’m not murderous if that’s what you mean. I’m sorry for that.”

“Why did you snap like that? I understand being angry, furious even, at that man’s behavior but there was no need to assault him.”

“I acted on impulse. He’s been pissing me off the whole time, and when he grabbed onto you I couldn’t hold myself back any longer.” It sounded weak to him.

“I was just as disgusted by him as well and I’m capable of defending myself, as tied up as I am by your government.” He argued.  

“I know. I saw. Guy damn near pissed himself when you spoke back to him.” Mateo said with a bit of fondness. 

“I know you don’t mean harm but…” Rider paused, probably thinking through what he was going to say, “There’s something that’s been bothering me since we first entered the bar.”

Rider looked at Mateo, wary to continue without his consent.

He had an inkling as to what Rider wanted to discuss. He wanted to avoid it but he knew it was something to face.

“Go on.” He said.

“You’ve been irritable the whole time we were there. Whenever a man came up to me, you would scoff and press up against me. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you like that. We’ve been to bars and pubs before and women there tried to flirt with me as well but you only ever teased or laughed along with them.”

Rider wasn’t sure how to face the newest problem that hindered their relationship. The source of it didn’t exist on his home-planet.

“You know I’ve never felt the way I do about you with anyone. You’re the first person I’ve ever had a romantic relationship with. I’ve turned down the Song, I’ve turned down the woman your government sent to seduce me because I only want you: a man. Mateo, are you afraid another man will steal me away?” He asked carefully but firmly.

Mateo wasn’t sure, but it sounded pretty close to how he felt. He knew Rider wouldn’t spontaneously fall in love with someone else, so he didn’t worry about Rider leaving him like that. But he didn’t trust those men around Rider.

He thought about it. He’s been thinking about himself and who he was a lot since he was locked up in Rider’s first prison.

“Maybe not that exactly, but yes.” He eventually admitted. “Rider, I’m not sure how this relationship is supposed to work but I want it to. I wonder sometimes, what would happen if there’s someone else? Some other guy who does know how this should go, that can provide the home and life you want. The freedom you crave. It makes me a bit sick to my stomach.”

Rider listened. He understood but it didn’t dismiss the issue Mateo was admitting to.

“It’s not just men you should worry about then.” Rider needed to make things clear.

“What?” 

“Back in the prison, by the time we got to The Song, I was  _tired_. I’ve felt lost the whole time there. I wanted to succeed in my mission and go back to my Star. But it felt like it was light years away. So when The Song offered me her cell, her gilded cage, I wanted to stay. To rest, and if she truly had the intention to start a relationship with me, I doubt I would have turned her away.”

Rider let that sink in before continuing.

“But then you were there and I couldn’t. Mateo, I love you because you’re  _you_. Being a man holds no significance in this. I didn’t even know what yours or anyone’s gender was until someone explained your planet’s view of it. What matters is  _you_. So long as you want this relationship, and so long as you want this to work out for the best, I’m not going anywhere.” Rider smiled at him. “So know that no one holds any risk of stealing me away.”

He hoped he said the right thing.

Mateo took a while to respond. He felt better, hearing that, more secure in his place at Rider’s side. Though there was more to it on his side of things, he wanted to keep it to himself for a little while longer.

He reached out to pull Rider in for another hug and kiss, thanking him for the reassurance.

“You’re too good to me.” He muttered into Rider’s ear.

Rider pulled back to press their noses against each other.

“How about we head to bed so I can spoil you then?” He asked, mischevious and smirking.

_‘Way too damn good.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, I love you but I can't keep going on for views alone. Please leave a comment or some constructive criticism, it doesn't matter how long or short it'd be. If English isn't your best language then you can even leave a little emoji; :) :o :(
> 
> Please, let me know what chapter(s) you like. Let me know what you'd like to see more of or see me try to write. I would LOVE some feedback from you no matter what kind it is. Reviews are a writers life source. Thank you for reading and have a nice day/night.


	16. Vengeance

The cut was clean. No bones were chipped, no arteries were severed, just a clean stab straight through the heart. Dad didn’t look like he was in pain as he took his last breath. The doctors theorized that the electricity the Stranger somehow coaxed around his blade, shocked his father’s pain receptors.

Platoon Sergeant Emon G. Sutton was buried with full honors in the preserved land of Maybelle Park that survived the horror of the Stranger’s landing. The very park where Emon first met his wife and mother to his only son.

He wish mom lived long enough for him to remember anything of her. If only to have comfort dad.

He nestles the bouquet in a little trench he dug out at the base of the statue to keep the wind from blowing the flowers away. They were sunflowers. His dad loved them because they were his mother’s favorite but the happy, bright yellow made him sick.

If he dies, he doesn’t want flowers on his grave. He wants his friends to pick up where he left off, and leave that monster’s head on a stick for his tombstone.

He doesn’t talk to his dad. He used to when he was younger, dumber, and thought he could convince himself that dad was just sleeping. In the ground.

Like an imbecile.

But he isn’t like that anymore. An adult, an army man, trained to the point of being considered a superhero. Or the Hulk, depending on who was talking. His commander said that if who he was now was the first jailer in that prison, the Stranger would never have gotten out.

He believes it. He would have snapped the Stranger’s neck every morning and every night to keep it dazed as it tried to heal through the shocks. He wouldn’t have been cocky or sympathetic.

He would have killed the Stranger.

And he will. He reaches into his coat pocket. The metal inlay of the gate key feels cool and smooth. It was his father’s.

He dedicated his whole life to hunting the Stranger down. The thing that left him twisted with hatred and anger that poisoned him since he was a child. He’s not even going to kill the Stranger for killing his dad anymore. He’s going to kill it for killing his childhood.

He stands up from where he was praying and looks onward. Even as miles far as he is from the gate to the prison, he can see the faint pillar of light shooting up towards space.

He thinks about all that he went through, all that he’s done as he walks towards it. He won’t be able to come back proudly after all this. He’s a deserter. He abandoned his post to satisfy his lust for revenge. He feels terrible about it but more for how his dad would react than the desertion itself.

His dad was a hero, a knight, a good man. But also, as he learned long ago, an incredibly selfish one.

Instead of losing his son to CPS custody, he took him into the prison with him. He had to take his lessons and chat with his slowly dwindling friends through a traced monitor.

His father isolated him from his entire world. Sometimes he even thinks that his dad knew the Stranger was going to break out and kill him. So he brought him along to witness his death and grow up to avenge him. To avenge humanity.

The grass still hadn’t grown back. He’s seen the videos of the Stranger sprinting towards the radio tower after it escaped, leaving a trail of rotted, dried Earth behind it. And now he follows it back up to the teleportation gate.

“You’re not coming back.” A smooth voice stops him in his tracks.

At the gate, a traitor leans against the arch. The Voice is an eccentric, theatrical and robust in whatever personality he plays. He’s a cold-blooded manipulator. So he ignores him.

The Voice clutches his wrist in his grasp as he lifts the key to the scanner. The Voice isn’t a fighter, but he can feel the power that pumps through the man’s body. From what he knew of the Jailers, The Edge was probably the toughest one. Probably.

“Then at least I won’t die a traitor.” He sneers.

The Voice stiffens. His red eyes always creeped him out as a kid, now they’re terrifying when burning with anger.

“Rider won’t kill you.” The Voice says softly. “He’ll know why you’re there and he won’t do a damn thing to stop you. Would a gracefully accepted death really satisfy you? Just let him live out his life in regret.”

“I’m not going to cave just because of a pair of pretty blue eyes like you.” He accuses. “And this isn’t about killing him.”

He snaps his hand out of the Voice’s grasp and faces the portal.

He hears the Voice’s _tsk_ but he was gone when he looks back. A living phantom, that man. The lights shudder and blink, then a window of the Hand’s cell shimmers into existence. The orange ground, the untrimmed grass turned sickly pale by the yellow light filtered by the dome. All of it is so much more familiar than Earth.

He breathes in and out, again and again. Then steps through. His mind turns static and all he could see and feel is pitch darkness for as long as a blink then he’s there. Back in his father’s cell and his. It hurts being there again.

He takes it all in. In his memory that horrid day replays in a grainy filter. As soon as he remembers the Stranger plunging his sword through his dad’s chest, he snaps out of his reminiscence.

His back is to the house. He remembers it in detail. The thatch roof, the well, and the large tree with the swing. He wonders if everything inside was left the way it was since then. So he turns around.

He thought he would have had to plow his way through every cell to find the Stranger. Not it lying against the trunk of a tree.

Dead.

He trips over his own feet as he lurches towards the body. His fingers are shaking and he presses them against the Stranger’s cheek. Ice-cold and he can feel the honeycomb pattern of the synthetic skin.

Blood is crusted on the Stranger’s face. One of its legs were broken, and an arm is slung across its lap, the hand must have been pressed against the infected gash in its abdomen.

Nothing about the Stranger shows any sign of life. Its normal sun-blessed skin is gray and patchy. It’s once weightless hair drapes down its shoulders, lacking its sheen and greasy. He pushes up an eyelid to see if its eyes will react but they’re still and pure black.

The Stranger is dead. Its chest doesn’t rise and fall, and it has no heartbeat. Earth’s number one enemy is dead. His chance at revenge is dead!

He screams and slams his fist across the corpse’s face, knocking it flat to the ground. He can barely see through the frustrated tears, and curls down to the ground. He screams and curses the Stranger, the prison, his dad. It isn’t fair. All the searching, training, killing the Stranger was to give him closure. Now it’s all for nothing.

Surviving all this time meant nothing.

He must look pathetic. Sobbing and shivering through the grief. He doesn’t know how long he laid there after he cries his heart out. But as he gets back up, something reflects the light of the dome right into his eyes.

He hisses and reaches towards the source to get rid of it. But his hand bumps against the Stranger’s and he freezes.

One of the Stranger’s hands is curled over something silver. It looks like a computer chip. He pries its fingers open and he sees that the chip is rested on top of a folded slip of paper.

He picks up the chip and rotates it in his hand. There’s an engraving in the silver; Answers. He holds onto it, determining to give it to his superiors. He hesitates to grab the paper but he already came this far for nothing. Why not a step further?

He plucks the paper from the corpse. He unfolds it and chokes up again.

_I’m sorry David_.

He’s just cried himself dry, he can’t muster any more tears. He leans his head back and looks up at the top of the dome. He feels exhausted but not in a broken way. More like he’s home after a job well done. He feels… Satisfied and it’s despicable. But he can’t bring himself to spite it.

“Yeah.” He lifts the Stranger’s corpse into his arms, “I’m sorry too.”

He walks back to the gate after one last look at the old house. He should request that the whole place gets torched. But first, he has to turn in all this evidence.

The portal shimmers and Earth is a welcomed sight. He doesn’t know what his superiors will do to the body and he doesn’t care. Somehow, he believes the Stranger wouldn’t either.

He steps through and wishes he’s gone barefoot to feel the grass in his toes. He laughs at himself. He’s been in the cell for what? Half an hour and he feels like he’s been gone a hundred years. Who knows, he might have been but The Voice standing up from where he sat against the gate debunked that.

The Voice looks at the Stranger in his arms and sighs. It’s full of regret and exhaustion.

“That was a quick fight.” The Voice says.

That was it? David knows what The Voice felt for the Stranger and that’s all he can say at seeing his corpse?

“Yeah, it was.” He replies, terse.

He steps forward to walk away but The Voice gets in his way.

“Can I…” The Voice stops and breathes in. “Let me carry him.”

_‘What a weirdo.’_ He thinks but he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t let him.

“… Fine.” He hands the body over and is impressed that The Voice holds it up so easily.

“What is that? In your hand.” The Voice asks, noticing the corner of the paper poking through David’s clenched fist.

“Answers, apparently.” He opens his hand and lifts up the computer chip to show it to The Voice. He stuffs the note into a back pocket. No one else has the right to see it.

“Better than to have tortured it out of him.” The Voice talks about the Stranger in a sorrowful tone. He can see that the former jailer is already grieving.

“I don’t regret what I’ve done, you know that right?” The Voice asks him.

He does and it infuriates him. He wants to say something snappy back but The Voice kept talking.

“I’m a bad person. I do bad things. Yet…” The Voice looks at the Stranger’s gray face resting against his shoulder. “For some reason, they always turn out for the better.”

The Voice looks back up at him and David suddenly remembers that his back is to the teleporter.

“Let’s see how far I can push my luck.” The Voice kicks him right in the diaphragm.

He can feel the sheer force of the attack break ribs and he doesn’t know whether his mouth fills with vomit or blood, maybe a disgusting mixture of both.

He knows that he dropped the computer chip, he sees it glinting in the light as it falls out of his grasp.

He manages to grab onto the frame with a hand as he falls halfway back into the prison. Before he could pull himself out, he feels something stab his hand. A knife. His hand reflexively lets go to get away from the weapon and he tumbles all the way back in.

He scrambles to get up, screaming at The Voice, calling him a maniac. Through the grid pattern of the portal, he can see that the traitor holds something in his fingers as he carries the Stranger; Dad’s key, David’s way in and out.

He lunges forward but he’s too slow. He wasn’t modified like the Jailors were, he doesn’t have super speed. He doesn’t manage to get even a finger through before The Voice kicks the gate so hard it rattles and the portal disappears.


	17. Article

“There are stories about alien species sending down invader(s) to blend in with the human race. To gather information about humanity’s strengths and weaknesses, their movements, and military, politics, and ideologies. In the more risqué books, the alien specimen is on Earth to breed.  

The infiltrator would disguise themselves via biologically morphing to look like humans or some sort of advanced technology that cloaked their true self. In a grand majority, the alien would disguise as beautiful women; blonde hair and soulful eyes. In the second set as an ‘otherworldly’ beautiful man. The latter usually ends with the alien falling in love with a human woman looking like the former and forsaking its mission or trying to steal her away to its world and then dying to the woman’s human love interest in some climactic fight.

None of that would work with the Stranger. Too bland, too predictable, and far, far too human.

The Stranger is mysterious but not unwilling to divulge any information he’s permitted to. He is tall, dark, and handsome but also soft, bright, and beautiful.

He has sun-blessed skin, rich brown and while you can’t see the scars it’s possible to feel them knotted deep in his muscles. Naturally curly hair, white as snow and light and fluffy as foam. It tangles like a rats nest but combs out smoothly.

And his eyes.

His eyes are a gorgeous part of him. Deep, unending blue, not like the ocean or the sky, but the vastness of space. Drowning in infinity, piercing, curious and intelligent beyond comprehension. His eyes analyze and solves every nuance of a person and why they are who they are. He uses that information to heal or utterly dismantle people.

His lover remembers the first time he looked at them,  _really_  looked at them. Their breath caught in their throat and their chest clenched. They felt like they were going to sob and break down at his feet. Because for once in their life, someone finally looked at them and understood; their life, their mistakes, their pain, and the agonizing process of learning how to be ‘human’.

He’s an older model. Not ancient like the veterans that trained him, but has good numbers of years beyond the Rookies he himself trained. The scientists studying him can’t tell the difference between his people’s generational production lines because they have no other examples.

But the subtle differences he admits to, do eventually become obvious. He can’t stand contradictions; contradictory behavior, beliefs, speech, images, etc. Riddles are the worst for him. He’ll stare and ponder before clutching his pounding head and sitting down.

He gets dangerously lost in his thoughts. Time on Earth speeds by far faster than it does on his Homeworld, so while he might think he’s been musing for a few minutes, days have actually passed. One time his Lover was called in on an emergency because The Stranger had been sitting by a window, unmoving, for a whole week. Awake through every day and night and not responding to anyone aside from a distracted hum.

His Lover recounts the horror and worry they felt receiving that call. And when they rushed to him, they shook him madly, asking what was wrong. The Stranger blinked slowly and asked them the same thing, confused and shocked by their actions.

When told that he appeared catatonic for a whole week, The Stranger apparently got sheepish and explained that he was simply lost in thought. His Lover admits that they never found out what he was thinking about so deeply.  

He doesn’t understand how Humanity survived as long as it did. To him, humans as a whole are small, weak, underdeveloped, incompetent, and childish.

But he does treat select few as adults and on equal footing with him.

“Individual Independent Evolution.” He explained it as to his lover. People who focused on bettering themselves to pass on more amenable traits to future generations. Thus, slowly but surely, growing a more tolerable human race.

His lover is apparently the epitome of such to him. He didn’t abandon his world for them, but he loves Earth because of them. His Homeworld has gone too far he told them, but they give him hope that things will get better someday.

And whenever he gazes at them, foolishly in love, they know they don’t deserve him.”—  **A New Dawn Daily**   _Highlight frompg. 02_

_Details from private interview with_   _an anonymous individual identified only as Subject’s Lover as per their request_

Excerpt from headlining story:

**The Stranger; Heartless Monster or Tired Soldier?**  

Article by  **A.N.D.D**  reporter {Redacted}

* * *

 

Downvotes _:_ **77** _%_

 

Upvotes _:_ **23** _%_

 

Current # of Views _:_ **40,546,732,430**

 

Current # of Comments _:_ **40,546,724,416**

**Author’s Note** _:_ “Please refrain from violent conduct and hateful speech directed towards Reporters for delivering the news that you asked for. We aspire to deliver unrefined truth even if it violates your personal beliefs. We do  **not**  possess knowledge of the article’s subject’s, or the anonymous individual’s, location nor would we confess such information if we knew it. Have a nice day, and if it isn’t, always have hope for a new dawn.” _-_ Jeremiah Kells, CEO of **A New Dawn Daily**

_[Comments Disabled]_

 


	18. Defective

Rider was stuck to the side of a newborn Rider; A-class, designation 556-232.

He was working the rookie through the basics. How to handle the guns, the daily schedule, the training exercises, etc. But he could tell that 556-232 wasn’t listening in full.

“Pay attention rookie. You need to know all this and practice it for your evaluation.” Rider smacked 556-232 on the back to keep them moving.

They didn’t say anything, just a lethargic nod of their head to show that they’re listening to him.

It’s very bizarre. The rookie had been active for nearly a month and they’re still behaving like it’s their first hour alive; numb and slow to gather their senses, sometimes unsociable. 556-232 takes a while to answer questions, sometimes wandering away in their thoughts or snapping to attention like they’ve been startled out of a deep slumber. And he had been told that they don’t cooperate with other Riders when he isn’t there.

It wasn’t a good sign. It could mean there’s a deficiency from their incubation process. Their reluctance to interact with others could be dealt with easily but 556-232 may be scraped and regrown if they don’t exhibit cognitive alertness soon.

They still showed exemplary abilities in combat training though and that’s the core purpose of A-class Riders. If Rider can train 556-232 to at least respond promptly with a, “Yes, sir!” then he may just save the rookie from being rebuilt.

A group of Riders walks pass them in the hall they were walking down. Scouts, same class as him. He recognized a few of them as Riders he trained before. They were dressed for flight. 556-232 stepped to the side, closer to the wall, to avoid accidentally touching any of them.

A few of them stopped for a split second to bow their heads in acknowledgment of him and as the last S-Rider walked past them, they reached out to pat 556-232 on the shoulder in subtle encouragement.

Training Rookies is done as a community so nearly every Rider on the Star keeps an eye and hand out for any having difficulties.

He tried to tell the other Rider that the Rookie didn’t like being touched. 556-232 would usually jump away and huddle behind him. But something happened when the Scout Rider touched 556-232, the air seemed to churn in on itself, cold and twisting to the point of snapping. It wasn’t a danger but a warning of it forthcoming. It’s how battlefields feel just before the battle. Each side praying away their last words before trampling towards each other to mow down their enemies in grisly glory.

Rider was shocked, astonished when 556-232 lunged towards the S-Rider, jamming their fingers into the vulnerable Rider’s temples in an attempt to crush their target’s head.

Rider just barely managed to grab 556-232 by the back of their neck and throw them into the wall. They, fortunately, passed out from the impact, for Rider’s certain that the other Scouts were actually going to shoot them if they dared got up.

The attacked Rider was curled over on the ground, pressing their hands against their bleeding temples.

“Blaire!” The other Scouts crowded around their injured sister, one of them racing off to tell the Star what happened.

“I-I-I…” The attacked S-Rider- Blaire -stammered for a second before clearing her throat. “I’m alright. Shocked, shaken a bit, but alright. The Rookie just breached skin.”

Blaire tapped her fingers against her caved temples and winced, “Wouldn’t say no to examination though.”

Rider eased his way through the protective shield of Scouts and crouched down next to her.

“I’m so sorry.” He used his sleeve to wipe away the drying blood as Blaire’s temples started to heal. “I was shocked as well but that’s not an excuse for reacting so late.”

“I’ll be alright, Sir,” Blaire reassured him.

She cast a worried look at the slumped, unconscious 556-232.

“What’s wrong with them?” The Scouts’ voices stumbled over each other, all of them asking the same thing in different variations.

“I don’t know.” Rider stood up, helping Blaire to her feet, and then walking back to 556-232. “But I’ll find out soon enough. Just have to get them to medbay.”

He lifted the Rookie into his arms. Hopefully, he threw them hard enough for them to be out of it for a few hours. 

But right as Rider picked them up, they groaned and started waking up.

The other Scouts drew their pistols, fingers off the triggers as disciplined but they were ready to shoot to kill if necessary.

556-232 rolled their head once, twice, and lazily blinked their eyes open. When they saw that Rider was carrying them, they curled up against his chest like a sleepy child.

Rider  _Tsked_ and dropped the Rookie onto their feet. Thinking fast, he slipped off his belt from his uniform pants and used it to tie 556-232′s hands behind their back.

Normally, a belt, rope, or chain would be useless to bound a Rider but after a few cases of Riders using articles of their clothing as emergency aids, either as bandages or to bound an attacker, their uniforms have gone under extreme renovations. Such as their belts being made out of taut living fiber that tightens the more its captive struggled.    

556-232 wiggled their wrists a bit and hissed when the fiber tightened.

“Why? What did I do?” Their speech was slurred.

“You attacked your fellow Rider out of benign contact. Do you not remember?” One of the Scouts asked, keeping their gun up.

“…I remember.” 556-232 answered after a moment, glaring at Blaire as though she was the one at fault. 

Rider reached out and grabbed onto the Rookies shoulders with both hands. He turned them around so they can look at his face and see just how disappointed and revulsed he was by their actions.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Something clearly went wrong during your time in the vat. But I won’t stand for it. Whatever your issue is, it’s volatile and dangerous. To yourself and others. We’re going to the medbay, you’ll be diagnosed and, if need be, imprisoned. No fussing and no running. Do I make myself clear?” He spoke as per his position as a superior officer.

He doesn’t like speaking from such a rank to Rookies, but in this instance, it’s necessary.  

556-232 stiffened and looked teary-eyed before hanging their head down.

“… Yes, sir.” They answered, voice meek.

“All of you best head off for whatever you were going to do. Blaire, take yourself to Analysis. Alright?” He ordered the other Scouts away.

The Riders reluctantly holstered their pistols and began walking away after they all checked on Blaire one last time.

Blaire thanked them off, reassuring that she was alright. She walked up to him and asked to walk to medbay with him.

“N-No!” 556-232 shouted against it.

Rider tightened his grip on the Rookie’s shoulders, but they didn’t attempt to attack Blaire again.

“I won’t touch you again or even speak or look at you if you wish.” Blaire raised her hands up. “We’re just heading to the same place. That’s all.”

“Can you handle that?” Rider asked 556-232.

It took a while for them to respond but they eventually answered, “Yes.”

None of them talked as they went. But to get to medbay, to get anywhere really, they had to cut through the Core’s chamber. Where the A.I. of the Star towered over her assigned Riders. She was going to want answers and may even already have orders for what to do with 556-232.

Rider wasn’t sure if he wanted to confront the Star on behalf of the Rookie. 556-232 presented themselves as a clear and definitive threat, attacking with no reasonable cause. As such, the proper code of conduct calls for termination and scraping. But if it’s a symptom of a defect than they’ll need counseling, healing, and maybe reprogramming at best.

He stops them right at the doors to the Core and untied the belt from the Rookie’s hands.

“Apologize.” He said to 556-232, gesturing to Blaire.

556-232 rubbed at their wrists, looking between him and Blaire, back to him then her again. They sniffed and hunched their shoulders against their head.

Rider reaches out a hand to cup the Rookie’s chin and gently pushed their head back up. They didn’t jump or get upset about him touching them he noted. He was already getting a hint of what was wrong with them and felt some relief.

“Do you know what made you attack Blaire?” He asked them.

They shook their head, “No”.

“Do you think you’re in the right to attack her for touching you?” He asked.

Another “No”.

“Do you think she wanted to hurt you?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you feel upset at yourself for attacking her then?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then you should apologize to her. For now, I won’t hold you solely responsible for your actions since we aren’t aware of the underlying cause of such aggression. But know that once we do find out what it is, you shouldn’t use it as an excuse to refuse acknowledgment of any future unprovoked attacking or use it to avoid apologizing for your uncalled for aggression.”

That is, of course, assuming that the Star will let them remain active for treatment.

556-232 grimaced and shuffled back to look at Blaire. She wasn’t looking at them as per their request and was waiting for 556-232′s cue to interact with them.

“Blaire… You can look at me.” The Rookie was mumbling but audible.

Blaire turns her head to look at them and waited for the Rookie to keep speaking.

“I’m sorry for hurt-” 556-232 hiccuped in their words. The Rookie clearly doesn’t want to apologize despite being regretful. They don’t see themself at fault. 

He pushes against their back, making them stand up straight and project their voice.

“I’m sorry for hurting you.” 556-232 rushed through their apology and scrunched back up.

Blaire accepted the apology graciously and they all were left standing there, preparing themselves.

Rider counted to ten breaths and was the first to enter the chamber. The Rookie right behind him and Blaire behind them.

The holographic head of the Star’s A.I. took up the entire chamber height-wise, from the dipped floor to the domed ceiling.  

“Rider.” The Star spoke softly, addressing him. “I take it that the one cowering behind you is A-class model 556-232. One of your Scout brothers rushed in here, frantic, and explained to me that 556-232 attacked Scout model 116-5 for no reason, crushing 116-5′s temples in an attempt to kill them.”

A computer program naturally doesn’t display any emotion but Rider could almost swear that his Star sounded… Angry and concerned.

“You know the protocol. Take Attack model 556-232 to Termination.” The Star ordered as he expected.

The thought of marching off the young Rider to their death was a perturbing one. If he had the chance, he would have proposed diagnostics and treatment. But the Star chose the course of action and all he can do was make sure 556-232′s last moments are comfortable.

“Wait!” 116-5 begged. “It wasn’t that bad and 556-232 apologized. They didn’t  _want_ to attack me. It’s got to have been because of some sort of defect. We should have them diagnosed and treated.”

“116-5, I understand your compassion for your fellow Rider, especially one so young, but I made my decision. 556-232 will be terminated.”

Rider heard the rookie softly whimper. He pulled them to his side in an attempt to comfort them.

116-5 shook her head and tried to argue with the Star again in 556-232′s defense.

“Blaire!” The Star reprimanded 116-5 harshly.

They were shocked. The Star had called Riders by the chosen names they tried to keep secret before. Either to placate them or warn them of the fact that she’s always watching, listening. But to hear the A.I. say a Rider’s personal name in such a defeated and exhausted voice, Rider felt guilty that his mothership had to deal with this.

116-5 hung her head down like a scolded child.

“It isn’t fair.” She whispered softly.

“… I know. Go to analysis 116-5, make sure that 556-232 didn’t hit circuits.”

116-5 hesitated but went on towards medbay without them. The head of the Core turned to watch her leave, emotionless.

556-232 burrowed their head against his shoulder and he could feel them slightly trembling.

He couldn’t say anything reassuring, so he just wrapped his arms around them and pressed them close.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled into their ear.

556-232 hugged his waist tightly like they never wanted to let go.

“Rider.” The Star was back to speaking softly.

She didn’t say anything else but he knew it meant to get moving.

“Come on.” He pulled 556-232′s grip off of him and held their hand to lead them away from the Core’s chamber.

They walked in silence. They cut across the entrance to the mess hall, where the thousands of Riders on the Star mingle together during breaks between training. They didn’t go in but they heard the commotion inside pause and could even feel the stares of the Riders through the walls as they passed. News travels fast on a space station.

The medic offices had huge glass windows that took up the wall on the right side of the doors. In one of them was 116-5. She was resting in a chair, her head turned to the side to give the medic system an angle to examine her temples. They were re-opened to examine the circuitry underneath. 116-5 must have been in a drug-induced haze as she didn’t acknowledge them as they went past the window. Or she was too depressed by 556-232’s sentence to look at them. 

The Termination room was in a dark corner of the medbay. It would have been a relief to see dust collected there. It exuded sickness and despair, didn’t help that it didn’t have any windows and that its doors were a deep red either.

Rider doesn’t know if he stopped before crossing the shadowy threshold first or the Rookie. Neither of them wanted to take a step further but only Rider was willing to do it. For his own sake mostly.

“I can’t.” 556-232 gasped out. They were so scared. There was nothing he or anyone could do to alleviate that fear.

Rider looked down at their clasped hands. He could just throw them in, strap them to the chair. He was tempted because he didn’t want to suffer this tension any longer. So he let 556-232’s hand go instead and waited.

556-232 stayed where they stood, scared and confused.

“I won’t hurt anyone again, I promise.” 556-232 pleaded.

“I believe you.” Rider said. He truly did.

556-232 started…  _Crying_. Little beady tears trickling out of their eyes.

It was so disturbing to see. It looked wrong for a Rider to do.

“I think I might have an idea of what your defect is.” Rider had to try to give the kid some peace of mind. “Back when you were activated, you panicked and scurried away to a corner. You didn’t let anyone near you. But then I came with other Riders to restrain you. I was the only one able to get close to you.”

556-232 hugged themself, “You looked softer. You were nicer and spoke gentler to me. I just like you more.”

“You  _imprinted_ on me. It’s not rare. Six out of ten Riders usually imprint on someone when they’re activated. Usually, another Rider or even one of the scientists around them when they first wake up. The usual treatment is to simply let the newborns socialize with others, spend some time away from whoever they imprinted on and steadily have that time apart grow longer and longer. They get used to being away from that person, learning to stand by themselves and the imprint wears off.” He starts to explain.

“But sometimes, they latch so heavily onto that person that they have to be ripped away and that can cause them to attack others. Rarely the imprint is still severe but not outright noticeable. The Rookie could easily be mistaken as sour and snappy or shy and awkward, only feeling comfortable around the one they imprinted on. In cases like those, the attachment could fester like a disease. A spring being twisted until it finally snaps.”    

After a moment, 556-232’s eyes lit up with understanding.

“Then I just need to spend time away from you. I can do that! I’ll do that.” 556-232 tried to reason but they looked like they weren’t convincing even themselves.

It’s true. It would have been a long and strenuous process since they’ve been stuck to his side for so long but it could have worked. But the Star made its choice, most likely knowing all that.

Rider couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t surmount to telling 556-232 to just accept their fate. So he said nothing.

A minute of agonizing silence passed before 556-232 started hyperventilating. He did what he could and hugged them tightly.

They hugged back the same as before and it was so much more heartwrenching right outside Death’s doors.

He saw that a Rider was coming down to them, grim-faced. The Rider stopped in front of them and gave 556-232 a pitiful look.

“I’m Medic class 265-023. The Star figured that you would have trouble getting 556-232 into the Termination room, so I’m here to sedate them if necessary.” 265-023 spoke clinically, not betraying any further emotion.

Hearing that, 556-232 gasped and pushed themself out of his grasp.

“Stay calm, I’ll make sure it’ll be painless.” 265-023 attempted to soothe 556-232.

Rider shot the medic a glare.

“That’s  _not_ helping.” He hissed and turned to the kid.

“Easy, look at me. Just look at me. It’s going to be alright.” He spoke low and calm, gently pulling 556-232 back towards him.

He might have been able to convince them to go into the room. He would have held their hand as they shut down and tried to do better with whoever they would have been rebuilt into.

But 556-232 was so scared. 265-023 snuck behind them and reached out to clasp 556-232 in a headlock in order to sedate them. But 556-232 saw them and  _ran_.

Attack class Riders aren’t nearly as fast as Scouts like him, so he was hot on 556-232’s tail. He managed to tackle them to the ground but they writhed and screamed to let them go, that they’ll get better, that they want to  _live_.

It was too much. Too heartbreaking, and they were too young, and the defect was too simple.

“Alright!” He snapped jumping off of them. But they lunged out and latched themselves on him, sobbing into his shirt. He laid a hand on top of their head and sighed.

“I’ll… Talk to her. I’ll do whatever I can to convince the Star.” He combed his fingers through their short hair. “But you have to stay quiet, alright? You can’t get into any more trouble.”

They nodded. He helped them calm down, feeling his own heartbeat settle. A narrow crowd of Riders started forming, roused by the commotion.

“What are you doing?” 265-023 caught up with them.

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly, pulling the kid up to their feet. He brushes off their shoulders and wiped away the tear tracks on their cheeks. “Whatever I can.”

He starts pushing 556-232 back towards the Core’s chamber, dreading what he resolved himself to do. The crowd parted to let them pass. A lot of the Riders were confused, more were concerned, and a few looked  _hopeful_.

It wasn’t going to work. It couldn’t work. But as he looked at the young Rider trying to nestle under his arm, he knew that he had to  _try_.


	19. Occhiolism

He was out on the hills, beyond the limits of the city. It was a beautiful place, pristine white and the blue sky reflected off all the shiny surfaces. Gardens were growing out of every nook and cranny, on top of every roof of every building.  

He remembers what it was like just decades before despite having been very young. The smog of toxins that made it difficult to breathe. All the oil spills and busted pipes that made water an expensive commodity. America was the epicenter of environmental pollution, and all the worse off for it. Crime ran rampant in the streets, folks breaking into houses and killing each other for clean oxygen emitters and freshwater casks.

Instead of hedge mazes and a golf course, the staple of wealth was a water purifier pumping out refreshing water from underground pools or rivers that cut through their property if they were lucky enough (or rich enough to afford those little heavenly abodes).

It was a gray and brown hellscape for a child to grow up in, and his parents knew that. So after a bout of acid storms, his parents pooled all their assets together and bought a ticket to a ferry sailing Americans away to select countries that actually worked and succeeded in restoring their slices of nature. As per the global agreement that the American president foolishly backed out of so many years before he was born.

He was, rather shamefully, a bit of a fanatic with Japanese media and culture. His parents knew and booked the ticket to move to Japan.

It was euphoric seeing thriving greenery and working-class citizens drinking clear, clean water like it was as free as the fresh air. Well, not exactly fresh as air pollution migrates as well as people do, but for it to be breathable was a miracle in and of itself.

He and his parents nearly fell to their knees to kiss the ground. Japan was a utopia to him. Not to say it wasn’t difficult living there. They had to learn a whole new language on the go and it took a number of charities and long hours for his parents to find decent work. But they pulled through in the end. He attended a dojo since high school and traveled Japan’s historic sites throughout his teens and college years.

He used to enter local kendo matches, and it was there he found his spark. His master was grueling and rough. And he helped shape him into a better man. It wasn’t just a matter of learning sword techniques but learning philosophy and discipline, acceptance and humility. His master taught him these valuable lessons, but he was still young and not above arrogance at times. His parents told him that it seemed his lessons made his ego grow even bigger.

He recounts the first time he felt humbled. It was years into living in Japan and he took to the country’s livelihood with giddiness. He went to the same school as other kids, learned the same lessons, albeit with some more difficulty, and ate the same food. He also came to share the same world views as the clique he immersed himself in.

That Americans were lazy, greedy, corrupted nationalists who whine and whinged about the pollution they caused but did nothing about. Just sat on their asses, scratching and biting each other over resources they could just share.

They weren’t wrong but it wasn’t necessarily right either. He shared those views internally long before his family immigrated to Japan. He always felt disgusted at America’s problems that no one seemed to want to do anything about despite complaining about them every day.  

Their comments made him ashamed of having lived in America, having been born on American soil. So he went to his parents and begged to have his name changed. His family was never one to argue viciously but it was fairly passive aggressive before his parents finally relented and agreed with him.

So, on his nineteenth birthday, he became Miura Anjin. He denounced his American blood and replied with a sad, “Unfortunately” whenever he was asked if he was born in the States.

It was hypocritical to embrace acceptance for all but not accept a part of yourself because it has some bad reputation. He learned that long after he grew into an adult. His master wandered away to teach other pupils elsewhere and his parents lived long and healthy into old age.

America was still rotten by that time, just rotated in the newest batch of corrupt politicians with empty promises and stuffed pockets. But news was spreading throughout networks, whispers of amazement in every coffee shop, and corner stores selling out newspapers like Panacea.

By curiosity, he picked one up and flipped to the fourth page. Not headlining story but apparently credible enough to earn front pages.

It was an article about a feat of technological brilliance performed by a genius duo of students; an architect and a bioengineer. Apparently, the two teenagers successfully built a model of skyscrapers that utilized a concentrated form of plant enzymes to rapid cleanse air pollution in a miles-wise radius. They installed it in one of their local parks and monitored the immediate area gradually getting healthier. They also wanted to create inner pipe systems that would use gardens inside the towers to clean the water as it cycled through the buildings.

The two students provided interviewers with recordings and charts detailing the model's effect in dispersing the pollution in the park. There was a quote from the architect on the process of designing and building it; “Trust me, it’s so much easier than you’re imagining it to be.” The young man was detailed as camera-shy and prim. Their full names weren’t listed or any pictures in order to protect their privacy.

The rest of the article was speculation as to whether the two would succeed in commissioning Congress to follow their blueprints and build the skyscrapers as they designed. The two had quite the backing, hundreds have called in their support of the teens. A few of them reported that they allowed the students to install a rudimentary replica of their filter system into their houses and were able to gain cleaner water from their sinks and showers than from their government regulated POUs thanks to it. But nothing else solid.

He was impressed, insanely so with the two. Uniting metal and glass with plants and soil to clean the environment was an admirable goal. But he didn’t think anything further of it. It was America after all, Congress would be the student’s biggest opponent in accomplishing their goal. It would never happen.

Then a mere three years later and pictures started circulating with hype throughout the web. They did it. It was confirmed that Congress agreed to the two student’s terms of following and funding their designs and allowing them oversight of the revitalization project. It was amazing. The images were photoshopped of course, but it gave an example of how the skyscrapers would look.

The architect student was an artist with scenery. A twisting spire, fat at the base floor and gradually twisting upwards and thinning out. At the tip of the building was a homage of a tree. There were shrubs nestled on the balcony following the shape of the building. Not for people but to serve as a plant box to view out the windows. Reflective blue glass windows and sparkling white, polished metal gave it a marble look.

It was out of place against the gray and brown of America, the sky a disgusting yellowish brown. But above the homage, like it was the blessed finger of God, a circle was cut out of the smog and the lovely blue sky was revealed. Sunlight gifted the building with godrays, making it sparkle and shine.

In that moment, seeing that image, he felt proud. He didn’t explicitly think it but he knew the pride came from being an American. From sharing the same birth country with the genius students who made the image possible. It surprised him. That he dared to feel that way after casting off the place from his identity in shame. It troubled him. At face value, all the comments he integrated were true, but in doing so he discredited the hard work of those desperately trying to prove those allegations wrong. Like the two students he wrote off so harshly. And he knew he had to make it up to himself for being so hard-headed.

The next month, he bought a plane ticket back to America. Not to move back there, as he had a rather comfortable job and life in Japan, but to pay respect to his home country.  

It was nearly another year until the flight to the US was cleared. The smog hovering above the states thinned and bloated randomly throughout the years making scheduling flights difficult. He abstained from reading any more news about the project, wanting to see it in action firsthand.

And he wasn’t disappointed. After a few hours flight, he landed back on American soil. He grabbed his luggage and took his mandatory medical mask to lessen the strain of the smog on his lungs, and left the airport for his reservation at a hotel. When he was a kid, he hated running around outside barefoot, the ground felt like sludge rising between his toes. But after being away for so long, he crouched down and took off his sandals to feel the ground beneath his feet, stuffing the pair into his bag. It wasn’t any better, but it certainly felt different, lighter and more like gravel. It seemed like the Earth was already perking up at the prospect of the revitalization project.

He waited for a taxi, ignoring the stares and murmurs of onlookers confused and curious at his attire. A taxi finally pulled up to him and he welcomed the air conditioner inside. He told the driver the address of his hotel and leaned back, resting his forehead against the window to watch the passing scene.

It was mostly familiar, same depressing palette, but he noticed a few places where people were crouched around planting seeds for plants and trees. He wondered how he could have missed all that when he was a kid.

Then the taxi rounded a corner and the sight of what was revealed took his breath away. He saddled up to the window, gazing in childlike wonderment at the bare skeleton of a massive skyscraper, sanctioned off from the public, construction workers scurrying left and right to grab tools and operate machines. The taxi stopped in the traffic of other drivers braked in the middle of the road to marvel at the sight too.  

For a second he doubted that it was the base for the skyscraper from the photo but then he noticed someone standing tall with the workers. Not grabbing tools but standing with his back to the road, holding a blue sheet, a blueprint.

That was the architect student, the brilliant young mind behind the skyscraper that he was commanding being built. He fumbled his way out of the taxi much to the confusion of the driver, cutting through the traffic, and across the street.

Looking back, he must have seemed comical, a grown early-thirties man pushing through a crowd to shake the hand of a stranger, a teenager no less. But he desperately wanted to pay honors to the young man that humbled him. That saved his country.

The architect was talking with a worker, most likely instructing them on something. The worker noticed him walking towards them and tapped the student on the shoulder to draw his attention to him.

The young man waved the worker away and turned towards him, raising an eyebrow. Getting a good look at the teenager’s face, he was able to pick out some Asian features. More striking was the color of his sharp eyes; red like rich wine.

“Can I help you?” The teenager sounded a bit irked at having his work interrupted.

He could understand, it took a long while for him to learn patience as well.

“I just wanted to say something to you.” He spoke honestly, somehow a little shy.

The young man sighed heavily, shoulders slumping in exhaustion and waved a hand, signaling him to say whatever he wanted. People, definitely politicians, clearly gave him a hard time. Either for his project, age, or race, maybe a taxing mixture of all three.

He stapled his feet together and bowed deeply to the teenager, “Thank you for your work. And congratulations on achieving your vision.”

He stood back up straight. The student was staring at him in shock, a bit confused, but then he laughed softly. He couldn't see it because everyone wore the same surgical masks, but he could tell that the architect was smiling when he said, “You're welcomed. And thank you.”

It was a small thing, but it seemed his thanks brightened the teen’s day just a bit. And he felt like he accomplished what he returned to do in that moment.

“I’m Mateo Kahlo.” The architect introduced himself, “And you?”

“Miura Anjin.” He introduced himself back.

A sense of respect settled between the two then a female voice broke through.

“I hope you aren’t making friends without me.” It teased.

He turned around to see another teenager behind him, carrying a box. She had short blonde hair and bright green eyes, a cross necklace resting on top of her shirt. It’s been a long time since he seen Christian artifacts, even when he was a kid they were rare.  

Mr. Kahlo huffed and turned away from them, walking away. The woman’s brows creased, scowling at the architect beneath the mask, disappointed.

She brightened up when she turned towards him, “I’m Claire Ó Cearbhaill. I know, it’s a doozy. You can pronounce it as O’Carroll too. I’m the bioengineer of this project.”

He bowed to her and earnestly repeated his thanks and congratulations to her as well.

She accepted it graciously and with a sweet laugh. She was clearly used to receiving thanks for her work, most likely got the brunt of them. They weren’t undeserved but that staggering difference between the students that were supposed to be equal partners was gut-wrenching.

His attention was snagged by the box in her hands and he asked what was in it.

“Oh this, it’s a box of samples. Of the plants that will be used for the project. I brought it to showcase to the workers and evaluate with Mateo the conditions these little fellas will need to grow healthy.” She gave the box a little shake.

“I’m glad you appreciate our work. But I best get going, and Mateo will probably be busy with the workers for the rest of the day.” It was a polite way of saying he had to leave and she was right. He arrived rather late in the evening and it was beginning to get dark.

They exchanged farewells and he shuffled his way back to his taxi. But something was off. The taxi wasn’t running.

When he got close he peered through the windows. The driver wasn’t inside. A shock went up his spine when he looked into the back seat. He left the car in such a haste that he didn’t think to grab his luggage. Now it’s gone.

He cursed. The driver stole his bags and took off.

If the mementos of his parents, his mother’s favorite quilt and a wakizashi his father bought when they got a steady job, weren’t in the bag, he would have let it go. He did, thankfully, keep his wallet in his pockets after all. But they were. And he wanted them back.

He raced up to onlookers describing the taxi driver’s appearance, asking if they saw him scurrying away with a duffel bag. Thankfully a good number of them did and pointed down the street, saying they saw him turn right. He thanked them and raced after the lead.

When he turned the corner, he asked the same thing of passerbys and people sitting around outside. Most were reluctant to speak to him, but a few did point out a way they think they saw the man go. The process repeated and repeated until he ran enough to finally catch sight of the driver. He didn’t yell at him. He just started to sprint towards him, aiming to tackle the man and snatch back his bag.

The man must have heard him as he jumped and turned around, seeing him sprinting towards him. The guy screamed and frantically tried to run away. But the driver obviously didn’t spend several years on a dojo, learning martial arts, and being pushed to his limits by a stern master. The driver slid into an alley and he was right on his heels.

Amazingly, the driver apparently ruffled through the bag when he stole it as he was pointing the wakizashi right at him like it was a kitchen knife. The poor man was shaking at the knees and sweating like a pig.

“Really?” He shook his head at the thief and stalked towards him.

The man tried to stab forwards to gut him, but he simply sidestepped it and punched him in the stomach. Winded but not seriously harm, the thief went down. He tugged the blade out of the man’s grasp and took back his duffel bag.

“I understand what your situation might be. But you know trying to attack me was wrong. I can see the regret in your eyes. I’ll let this go on the condition that you’ll be better than this.” He reached a hand out to the man.

The driver gasped and stared at him. It took a minute of shocked silence and the man took his hand. He was starting to cry and blubbering out how difficult it’s been to make ends meet. How straining it was to put food on the table for his kids.

He walked with the man back to the taxi, discreetly checking his pockets and bag but everything was still there, so maybe the man was telling the truth.

People gave them confused looks as they walked back but said nothing. Maybe they had an idea of what happened and was compassionate to the man as well.

The traffic was still there, the street clogged by the abandoned taxi. He helped the driver through the crowd and back into the car. They amicably parted ways there and he walked the rest of the way to his hotel. It was quite close to where they stopped.

As he settled in for the night, he thought back on the wild turn of events. He found that he was disappointed by how easy it was to get his stuff back. He took a dojo of his own back in Japan and trained kids in self-defense. He enjoyed properly fighting other masters, it was thrilling. But that actual, real danger of getting hurt in a street fight was disappointing.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought with amusement how he wished being a wandering samurai fighting worthy opponents was a profitable business.

* * *

The sky was clear and beautiful. In such a short time, those teens accomplished so much, so fast. He heard they’re even working shoulder to shoulder with top-ranking government officials now.

 _‘Although’_ , He smiled,  _‘they’re hardly kids now.’_ They were probably in their mid to late twenties. He’s forgotten exactly how old the two geniuses were after the long years traveling.

He was right that night, being a wandering samurai isn’t profitable. But it was still worth it. He had to rely on the charities of others sure, but it also showed him the kindness strangers are capable of showing others.

Fighting professional martial artists wasn’t precisely as exciting and blood pumping as movies and stories make it out to be. A respectable match, first to give in loses. Sometimes, if his opponent is as much of an enthusiast as him, they can push the limit to whoever first draws blood. Usually short and quick but it always taught him something new, something to better himself.

Except recently, he’s been looking back on all the fighting. They all look so anticlimactic in retrospect. Sure, they were intense and exhilarating during the moment of battle. But afterward, the high dies out and he finds that he hadn’t even broken a sweat. Knowing this, the traveling and the matches seem bland, dull. He hasn’t been challenged and forced to his limit and it’s mildly infuriating. He wants to grow from who he is, as a man and as a warrior. He wants an epiphany.

But to have that, rules must be broken, and risks must be undertaken. And he won’t request that of someone. That itch, that want, should be mutual.

He sighs and stands from where he sat to rest. He looks up to the sun as much as he could and frowned at the bizarre dot set against it. He traveled so far to so many places that he was only able to catch snippets of speculation about the phenomenon. It was certainly odd, but he’ll worry himself about it when it becomes worrisome. He shrugged it off and started heading down the hill.

He came back to the city after so long because he heard that it was the anniversary of the grand skyscraper he saw all that time ago, the first of the revitalization project. He wanted to come see the ceremony to celebrate it.

If the rumors were true, Mr. Kahlo and Ms. Ó Cearbhaill were to be given the key to the city as a surprise gift. He hasn’t met the two since that day, but he could already imagine their reactions from what little he saw of their personalities face-to-face.

He chuckles at the thought. Mr. Kahlo probably wouldn’t even bat an eye, would probably care less and just want to get back to work. He never came off as someone who would even attempt to be a people pleaser. While Ms. Ó Cearbhaill would accept it gracefully and with pride, offering praise to the people of the city for letting all the progress happen.

A long walk after and he finally stepped onto paved streets again, standing in the shadows of flowering skyscrapers. Banners were strewn about, vendors were selling green balloons designed as Earth at every corner, and celebrators were dressed in Earth day merchandise. It looked a bit silly with all the enthusiasm but understandable considering how it was like when he was a kid.

The speech and ceremony were stationed at the base of the Grand Oak Skyscraper, the one from back then. As he cut through an intersection on the way there, he was caught up in a parade of floats depicting various murals and models of animals and nature. He stopped and smiled as he watched the procession roll by.

One of them even had a sculpture of Ms. Ó Cearbhaill with a pair of angel wings standing amidst a flower field. Though maybe they were supposed to be Dove wings considering the animal motifs. It was a bit pompous but nonetheless deserved for all her hard work. Surprisingly and yet not so, there was no such image of Mr. Kahlo on the floats. There weren’t even any at all. Either because he’s being ignored by the public, or because he didn’t want such depictions of himself he doesn’t know.

As the parade music faded away as the floats drove past, something barreled into the back of his legs.

“Huh?” He looked down to see a little girl rubbing her nose, probably hurt a bit after running into him. “Easy young lady, nearly broke my legs tackling me like that.” He smiled at her.

The little girl looked up at him and blushed, embarrassed but smiling a bit at his teasing. She giggled and reached up her arms to flex her tiny muscles. It was adorable and he couldn’t help guffawing at her antics.

“Esperanza!” A man’s voice grabbed their attention and looking towards the source he saw a familiar face pushing through the crowd towards them.

Mr. Kahlo didn’t spare him a glance as he snatched the little girl, Esperanza, into his arms.

“Don’t run off like that. You made me worried sick.” Mr. Kahlo ran his fingers through her hair as though reassuring himself that she was there. “You’re going to give me gray hair, I swear.”

Esperanza giggled at that.

“Sorry, Papa.” She said with a smile, making the apology questionable.

Mr. Kahlo became a father. Interesting and quite a twist he didn’t expect. From the paper, while it still followed the two students, Mr. Kahlo was a big-name playboy at the time. A child was to be expected from such a lifestyle, but it was still a surprise to see.

“Mr. Kahlo.” He bowed his head at the grown man. He intended to reintroduce himself if possible, but he was interrupted by another person joining them. A woman, maybe Mr. Kahlo’s wife?

“Mateo! Don’t run off like that!” The woman was panting, giving Mr. Kahlo a light smack on the head when she reached him. “Esperanza’s a tough girl, she can look after herself.”

Esperanza smiled proudly at that, but Mr. Kahlo scowled at the woman.

“She can have superpowers for all I care, she still shouldn’t run off. Don’t encourage this sort of behavior, Jaliyah.” He scolded the woman.

“Ouch, my own baby brother is moming me.” Jaliyah noticed him standing there, unsure, and gave him a smile and wink. “Can you believe this guy? Not even over seven years ago, I had to babysit him as he was drunk as a skunk. Then he spawned a baby and pow! He magically became a responsible adult, who cleans the dishes and everything!”

“Did you just say spawned?” Mr. Kahlo was openly gritting his teeth in annoyance.

“Oh, you’re his older sister?” He asked Jaliyah, it being the only thing he was able to comprehend from that.

She nodded in confirmation, “That’s right, I’m Jaliyah Belmonte-Kahlo. The pretty one.” She fanned her lashes at him.

It was a satirical display of flirtation, but he still noticed how she looked him up and down in an appreciatory manner. It made him a bit warm under the collar, she was indeed beautiful.

“I’m Miura Anjin. Mr. Kahlo, I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t remember, but we met before. Over a decade ago, I came back to America to see the skyscraper you were building and offered my thanks and congratulations to you.”

It took a moment then Mr. Kahlo snapped his fingers in recognition.

“Right, that was you. Good to meet you again.” He repositioned his daughter in his arms so that she was able to rest her head on his shoulder comfortably.

“Likewise, and if you don’t mind me repeating myself, thank you for your hard work and congratulations on your success.” He bowed deeply to him.

Mr. Kahlo waved it off with a smile, returning the regards.

“I’m sorry that this reunion has to be cut short but we gotta get moving if we’re going to make it in time.” Jaliyah started pushing Mr. Kahlo in the back to get him moving.

“Alright, alright. See you around.” Mr. Kahlo said to him before walking away.

Jaliyah shook his hand with another smile and wink before leaving to follow her brother.

He felt something in his palm and blushed as he got an idea of what it was. Looking at his hand, he saw a crumpled slip of paper with digits on it. He shook his head and pocketed it.

The chance meeting was good for him, it seemed to brighten up the day.

He walked on, finally arriving at the end goal. A stage was set up and Ms. Ó Cearbhaill was already giving her speech to the citizens gathered. Mr. Kahlo was there, holding Esperanza’s hand as she hid behind his legs, and Jaliyah stood next to him.

He noticed Jaliyah rolling her eyes as Ms. Ó Cearbhaill talked on, scanning the crowd. Their eyes met and she flashed him a blinding smile. He smiled back and waved at her. Maybe the numbers were worth a shot.

Then he froze up and the joy faded away. Something was wrong, sickening, and dreadful. People around him were starting to mumble something, the words listless and echoing in his ears as the air turned sour and stifling. Hands reached up to point at the sky. There was a comet striking by, in the daytime no less.

But it wasn’t a comet. A comet doesn’t flash and spin, doesn’t look like it’s dancing in the air as it plummets towards Earth. Towards them, the people realized with terror as it grew larger the closer it got. The crowd dispersed like roaches, screaming and shoving each other to the ground to get away.

His vision went pure white when it landed, crashing through the Grand Oak skyscraper like it was a tower of blocks. The last thing he saw clearly was Jaliyah pushing Mr. Kahlo and Esperanza away from whatever it was that crashed.

He doesn’t know how long it took. Minutes, hours, maybe days before he regained consciousness. But when he did, everything ached. He felt like he was a stubborn boy sore from Master’s training again.

He couldn’t string together a complete thought. Barely able to process what was around him. The city was on fire, charred black with burns and smoke. He crawled his way forward. Eventually, his hands touched warm rocks that jutted up like sharp teeth.

He pushed himself up onto his knees to try to get a better look, coughing from all the smoke. He was able to see the crater, dipping in and something was at the bottom. A man. The man was wearing some sort of mecha armor. Odd and cliche yes, but it was the best he could identify it as.

He watched as the man unbuckle himself from the mech, turning his head left and right, surveying the place he crashed into. The man didn’t even have a scratch from the explosion. Everything about him shone, white hair, dark skin, and he was wearing some sort of armor. Lines of neon color traced the outlines of his muscles; blue then green then red.

The man climbed up the side of the crater opposite of him and stood on the lip.

He heard someone. Multiple people. Screaming, someone yelling. The man just stood where he was like he was waiting for something. The man had two clear weapons on him. A gun and a sword. The Stranger that just crashed into the city, possibly killed hundreds upon landing was a swordsman.

The tense wait was broken when a gunshot rang through the air. The Stranger’s head snapped back a bit before lowering back down. He started to climb down into the crater to climb up to where the Stranger was to get a better look. The Stranger started coughing into his hand before plucking something out and showcasing it to whoever he was facing.

It was small and the sunlight that forced its way through the smoke glinted off its metallic surface. A bullet.

He got close enough to be able to reach out to touch the Stranger's feet. But someone started firing some sort of automatic gun and he was forced to take cover down in the dip of the crater.

He looked up to where the Stranger should have still been but he wasn’t there. Then as abruptly as it started, the gunfire stopped. He cautiously peeked out to where the Stranger disappeared and gasped.

There were bodies of soldiers littered across the ground and the Stranger stood amongst them, gripping his bloody saber. There was still one soldier left alive, cowering on the ground, begging not to be killed.

The Stranger was staring the soldier down. And, to his shock, the Stranger sheathed his sword. The Stranger turned his back to the terrified soldier, letting them run away screaming, and started to walk back towards the crater.

He just barely managed to race back and out of the crater in time for the Stranger to slide, barefoot, down to the mecha suit.

He heard a sharp whine up above him. Looking up, straining his eyes to see as clearly as he could, he caught the silhouettes of jets flying above the flimsy smoke. Fighter jets, it was the military.

They were there to fight the Stranger who just crashed into and blew up the city.

He peered back down into the crater in time to see blue flames erupt from the feet of the mech suit, shooting the Stranger up into the air as true as an arrow.

Up and up through the smoke and disappeared from sight.

He was left alone. Surrounded by flames and corpses. And yet he wasn’t afraid. He saw the Stranger and what he did. He didn’t know what to think of it, but he wasn’t frightened at all.

He staggered to his feet and dusted off his clothes. He remembered the tiny slip of paper that was in his pocket and felt guilty for not having the strength to move, to reach Jaliyah and push her to safety as she did for her brother and niece. He couldn’t search for her by himself, not as the city was now. So, he forced himself forward. He remembered his way into the city, he can still recognize the streets even as ruins. He’ll leave the city perimeters that way as well and circle around for soldiers or rescue fighters to give his account of what happened. Hopefully, he could assist them as well.

He wanted to help find survivors, Jaliyah, and her family mostly. But in the back of his mind, a nagging feeling, an encroaching desire whispered to him that he also wanted to confront the Stranger. It was that desire that made him want to push the limits that always held him back.

He wanted to fight the Stranger.


End file.
